CIHM 

Microfiche 

Series 

(IMonographs) 


ICIVIH 

Collection  de 

microfiches 

(monographies) 


Canadian  Instituta  for  Historical  Microraproductions  / 


Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  historiquas 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 

Coloured  covers/ 
C^'jverture  de  couleur 

□ Covers  damaged  / 
Couverture  endommagte 

□ Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restaur^  et/bu  pellicula 

I    I  Cover  title  missing  /  Le  litre  de  couverture  manque 

I    I  Coloured  maps/ Cartes  gtegraphiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  Ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  ndre) 

CokHired  plates  and/or  lllustrattons  / 
Planches  et/ou  Wiwtrattons  en  couleur 

□ Bound  with  other  material  / 
ReM  avec  d'autres  documents 

□ Only  editton  available  / 
Setde  MRkm  dispontole 

□ Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion  along 
interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de 
I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
int^rieure. 

I  I  Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
' — '  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages 
blanches  ajout^es  iors  d'une  restauration 
ar^ralsserrt  dara  le  texte,  male,  torsque  cela  dtait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  M  fNmtes. 

□ Adcfittonal  comments  / 
Commentaires  suppMmentalres: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lul  a 
6\6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sont  peut-6tre  unk^ues  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  m4tho> 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqu^s  ci-dessous. 

I    I  Cotoured  pages/ Pages  de  couleur 

I    I  Paget  (tamaged/ Pages  endommagiea 

□ Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pagea  restaurtet  etAou  peiNeuMet 

Q Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  dfcok)ries,  tacheMet  ou  pkiutet 

I    I  Pages  detached  /  Pages  d^tach^es 

Showthrough  /  Transparence 

□ Quality  of  print  varies  / 
Qualit^  In^gale  de  I'impresston 

□ Includes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 

I    I  Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata  slipii. 

' — '  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  bes 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
paitleliement  obscurcies  par  un  fei^let  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc..  ont  6\6  filmdes  k  nouveau  de  fafon  ii 
cbtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


□ Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
discolourations  are  filmed  Kvice  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  decolorations  sont 
film^  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image. 
possl>ie. 


This  ittffl  it  filmed  at  the  rtd uction  ratio  chtcked  below  / 

C*  documeflt  att  liimA  au  taux  d«  rMuetion  indlqui  ci-dtateus. 

lOx  14x  18x  22x  26x  30x  

I      i      I      I      I      I      I      I      I      I      I      1^1      I      i      i      I      i      I      I      i  I 

12x  16x  20x  24x  2tx  32x 


Th«  copy  filmed  h«r«  has  b««n  raproduMd  thank* 
to  ttia  flanaroaitv  of: 

Stauffor  Library 

Th«  images  appearing  haf*  ara  tha  baat  quality 
possibia  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  originel  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
fitoiilfii  oofi tract  ipocifleation8< 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  ere  filmad 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
ttia  last  page  with  a  printed  or  ilhiatratad  impraa- 
sion,  or  the  beck  cover  when  eppropriete.  All 
other  originel  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  pege  with  a  printed  or  liluatratad  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  laat  page  with  a  printed 
or  iHuatratad  impreaaion. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  eech  microfiche 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  — ^  (meening  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  ▼  (meaning  "END"), 
whiehaver  appliec. 

Mapa.  plates,  cherts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  et 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hend  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  frames  aa 
required.  The  following  diagrama  illuatrato  tha 
method: 


L'exemplaira  film*  fut  reproduit  grica  i  la 
gin4ro*it«  da: 

Stauffer  Library 
QiMM's  Uriwersl^ 

Las  imsges  suivantes  ont  M  reproduitss  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compto  tsnu  de  la  condition  et 
de  le  nenet*  de  I'exempleire  film*,  et  en 
eonformit*  avoe  lea  eonditiona  du  contrat  de 
filmago. 

Laa  axemplaires  origineux  dont  la  eouvartura  en 
papier  est  imprim*e  sont  filmte  an  commandant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminent  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'iilustration,  soit  par  la  second 
plat,  salon  le  ees.  Tous  lee  autree  eaemplairaa 
origineux  sont  film*s  en  eommen^Mit  per  le 
prami*re  pege  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
dln^ression  ou  d'illustretion  et  en  terminant  par 
la  domiira  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
amprainta. 

Un  das  symboles  suivants  spparaitra  sur  la 
derniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
caa:  le  symbolo       signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
aymbola  ▼  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartea.  planchea,  tableeux.  etc.,  peuvent  itre 
filmia  A  das  taux  da  rMuction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  itre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich*,  il  est  film*  *  psrtir 
de  I'engle  sup*rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  *  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  la  nombre 
d'imegea  ndcesseire.  Lee  diegrammes  suivents 
iHuatromla  iw4thoda. 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

OOUQlAS 

qU€€N'S  UNlVGRSiTy 
AT  kiNQSrON 
Pk^senfed  by 


THE  MAKERS  OF 
ENGLISH  POETRY 


W.J.  DAWSON'S  WORKS 


MummmmiSm 

ASMiirtftk$Fttkm  Mai>  <iH,  W-w 
AProph^imBabyhm  CMh.«i.M 

ASMqra'SMUl 


MaktnoJEn^itkPotlry  tf».4ttk.gtiu^$iMwei 

liaktrs  oS  English  Pklkm  9^  dotk.  0t  IIJ»  mi 
Th*TkmkM«J  Mamkood  Hiw,ri»i>.Wcn 

TImBmptntSLm  .  Mw.*t>.>i»«* 

Th$  Foriotltn  Stertt  AnUaaaa.aacmtt 


77w  Reproaek  of  Christ 

KM  M  ta*M*NliM  Ir  NhnI 


THE  MAKERS  OF 
ENGLISH  POETRY 


BY 

W.  J.  DAWSON 


MSW  AND  BKVmD  BUinOM 


Nbw  York      CmcAOO  Toronto 
FLEMING  R  REVELL  COMPANY 
London  and  Edikburoh 


PMfmi  ii 

The  bw  of  life,  num  is  not  man  as  jret 
Nor  shall  I  deem  his  object  served,  his  end 
Attained,  his  genuine  strength  pat  fiurly  fMftf^ 
While  oofy  hm  and  there  a  ttar  diipeb 
n*  deHoieii,  hen  aad  dwie  ■  toweifaig  afat 
O'erlooks  its  prostrate  feUows :  when  Om  kMt 
Is  ont  at  once  to  the  despair  of  night, 
men  all  mankind  alflw  ie  petiecMd, 
Eqwd  in  inll-blown  pnwiii  llnii,  act  till  iSma, 
Imj,  begin  man's  gaaenl  iateqr. 


i 


PREFACE 


The  publication  of  this,  and  the  companion  volumes, 
The  Makers  of  English  Prose,  and  The  Makers  of  English 
Fiction,  completes  a  task  commenced  fifteen  yean  ago. 

At  that  time  I  published  a  volume  entiUed  The  Makers 
of  Modem  English,  which  attempted  to  give  a  coherent 
and  critical  account  of  the  makers  of  modern  English 
poetry.  But  even  then  I  had  in  mind  a  mudi  larger 
design,  viz.,  a  critical  history  of  modern  literature  which 
should  include  not  only  the  poets,  but  the  great  masters 
of  prose  and  fiction.  For  fifteen  years  I  have  steadiastiy 
kept  that  design  in  view,  wixki^  on  it  ai  tte  dicoai- 
stances  of  a  busy  and  laborious  public  life  permitted. 
The  design  now  stands  complete.  The  three  volumes 
stand  coordinated  as  one  whole,  and  the  original  tide, 
Th*  Makers  ef  Modem  EMgiisM,  now  lias  a  jurtificatioa 
whidi  the  single  volume  on  the  poets  did  not  possess. 

The  earlier  volumes  now  take  their  place  with  The 
Makers  of  English  Fiction,  which  was  published  but  a 
few  months  ago.  They  have  been  carefully  revked,  a 
task  rendered  the  more  necenary  by  that  process  of  time 
which  in  fifteen  years  has  removed  from  the  arena  of 
literature  some  of  the  greatest  of  those  men  of  genius 
who  have  given  glory  to  our  time. 

It  is  with  a  sense  of  sadness  rather  than  cX  relief  tiiat  I 
now  relinquish  a  task  which  has  become  so  much  a  part 
of  myself.  But  I  am  consoled  by  the  knowledge  that 
my  woric  now  appears  in  Hie  fom        I  fiiat  des^^ned 


8 


PREFACE 


for  it,  and  I  trust  that  it  may  serve  its  purpose  in  stimu- 
lating among  the  increasing  multitude  of  those  who  feel 
the  attraction  of  books  that  love  of  literature  which  has 
been  my  own  lifelong  solace  and  delight 

W.J.DAfMMI. 

Nm  Y9rkt  df^t  *9o6. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

II. 
III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

xin. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 
XIX. 
XX. 
XXI. 

xxn. 
xxni. 

XXIV. 


Introdvctoiit  .  . 

The  Imtbrval  Bbpokb  thb  Dawm 
RoMKT  Burns       .      .  . 
Lord  Btmhi  .... 
Smixir  .... 


.      .  II 

l8 

.  36 

•  .  *$ 

•  .  45 

John  Kbati          .      •      .      •      •      •  57 

Sir  Walter  Soott  ......  70 

COLSRIDGB   So 

Robert  Southey   90 

WnxuM  WoRonrmni   I0» 

The  CoNNBcnoN  Bbtvbbii  Woutnmtmh  Im 

AND  His  Poetry   108 

Some  Characterist;cs  OF  Wordsworth's  PoETar  117 

WoMMirMT>*E  Vinr  or  Natom  amb  IIaii  is6 

AHO  FoUflCAIi  FlOMM  •  lift 

Wordsworth's  PkumuL  CBAEAcnaBna  I46 

WiLUAU  Wordsworth — Concluding  Survey  if  f 

The  Humanitariam  Movement  in  Pomr— • 

TteuAt  HooB  AHO  Mu.  ftwwram           .  164 

Lord  Tenntmm.   GnmuL  Cbaiacimmwb    .  17$ 

Tennyson's  Treatment  op  Naturi  .             •  '^7 

Tennyson  :  Love  and  Woman  ....  199 

Tennyson's  View  op  Society  and  Politics       .  si  1 

byui  AHs  THi  bnu  or  tm  Koto  .            .  st9 

TiMMvioii  AS  A  Riuoioini  Ponr  ... 

TkHimoH's  In  MBMoaMM     .      •      •  . 


10 


CONTENTS 


XXV.  RoMRT  Biowmwc      .      .      .  . 

XXVI.  Browning's  PmioiorHY  or  Lirs 

XXVII.  Thi  Spikit  op  Browning's  Reuoion 

XXVIII.  BMmMiMo'i  AmrvM  TO  CHRUTUMtTr  . 

XXIX.  BtOWMIMO't  &OMinC*MCB  IN  LiTUUTURP  . 

XXX.  RoiBRT  BrOWNINO— CONCUIIMMO  SmvBT 

XXXI.  Matthew  Arnold       .       .       .  . 

XXXII.  Dants  Gabriel  Rossetti      .       .  . 

XXXIII.  Algirnon  Charles  Swinrorni 

XXXIV.  WuxiAM  Morris  

XXXV.  CoMctomNa  SuRvnr     .      .      .  . 


INTRODUCTORY 


HESE  studies  have  a  certain  aim,  and  it  is 


hoped  win  have  a  certain  coherence,  whidi  may 


JL  make  them  acceptable  to  the  class  of  readers 
for  whom  they  ar intended.  It  may  be  well  to  state  ia 
a  few  words  what  the  aim  of  the  writer  is. 

In  tiie  first  place,  it  is  somewhat  difficult  to  define 
where  what  is  called  modem  English  literature  com> 
mences.  In  the  truest  sense  English  literature  is  a  unity. 
It  has  grown  up  out  of  small  and  semi-articuhite  begin- 
nings into  a  great  organic  whole.  It  may  be  compared 
with  a  tree  which  has  passed  through  various  stages  of 
growth,  and  has  at  certain  seasons  put  forth  foliage  and 
blossom,  passing  through  adolescence  to  maturit.  at  last 
becoming  rooted  in  a  stately  strength,  and  bearing  a  po-- 
petual  harvest.  Or  it  may  be  compared  wiUi  a  river 
which  has  broadened  and  deepened  in  its  course,  until 
at  last  what  was  a  feeble  and  insignificant  stream a 
mighty  tideway,  on  whidi  tiie  teviathan  may  float,  or  die 
craft  of  many  and  diverse  mastofs  sail  at  ease. 

Whichever  illustration  we  may  select  as  most  appro- 
priate, the  point  to  be  remembered  is,  that  English  liter- 
atuie  is  aa  cnrganic  whole.  Then  are  no  deep  ^vi^ag 
fissures,  and  tiie  divisions  which  we  have  invented  to  help 
us  in  our  survey  of  it  are  purely  arbitrary.  Not  the  less» 
however,  it  has  its  periods.  A  just  criticism  and  discern- 
ing e3re  pereiive  how,  at  certain  erw  oi  a«tt«Hit  life, » 
seeming^  new  force  has  flowed  tiurou|^  tibe  <dd  dtfUH 


19    THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLUSB  FQEIBY 


ndi,  or  has  made  a  new  channel  for  itieU;  and  has  pro- 
duced distinct  and  definite  results.   The  great  literary 
battle  of  Victor  Hugo's  life  between  dassidsm  and 
romanticism  has  had  its  oounterpart  again  ami  main  ia 
Eng^  literature.  In  thediya  of  Pope  and  Dryden  we 
had  a  certain  theory  of  poetry  which  was  thought  to  be 
perfect  and  all-sufficient   Poetry  was  treated  ahnost  as  aft 
exact  science,  and  the  laws  for  its  manufacture  %tn  re- 
duced to  a  precise  code,  and  stated  with  axiomatic  clear- 
ness.  There  were  even  certain  phrases  for  natural  facti* 
which  were  universally  adopted  as  current  coin,  and  the 
west  wind  was  always  spoken  of  as  » the  gentie  zephyr," 
and  the  nortii  wind  as  « the  blast  of  Boreas."  The  aim 
of  poetry  was  not  to  startle,  but  to  instruct    It  was  to 
put  into  lucid  and  authentic  phrase  certain  facts  and 
teachings  which  the  individual  poet  thought  it  wdl  tiiat 
Us  generation  should  kam.   Poetry  was  not  the  vehicle 
of  passion,  not  the  expression  of  imagination,  not  the 
voice  of  the  emotions,  so  much  as  the  vehicle  of  philo- 
sophic thought  and  r^ection.  To  tay  that  the  poetry 
produced  under  such  circumstances  was  not  poetry  is 
fidse ;  but  it  is  poetry  in  fetters.   Everyone  knows  that 
Byron  loved  and  defended  Pope,  and  looked  upon  Pope 
as  an  impeccable  master;  and  Pope  deserved  Ac  rteof^ 
nition  of  Bsrron.   For  lucidity,  for  sharpness  and  bril- 
liance of  phrase,  for  delicate  force  and  efiect,  it  is  hard  to 
surpass  the  finest  work  of  Pope. 

But  gnuiually  men  came  to  see  tiiat  Pope's  &uiy 
on  Mem  wu  not  the  last  possibility  iA  English  poetry. 
The  new  social  and  political  forces  at  work  in  the  world 
spread  a  revolutionary  ferment  through  Jie  realm  of  let- 
ters alK>.  If  en  were  tired  (rf  tlie  artificial  glitter  <A  <S- 
dactic  poetry;  tiiey  began  to  yearn  forttt  freshness  and 


OrrBODUCTOBY 


18 


wholesomenen  of  a  more  natural  style.  As  if  in  answer 
to  this  new  yearning,  in  1736^  Thonsoo  publiilied  his 
SMMWfWUdi  MMaded  tbe  note  of  recall  to  nature. 
Then,  in  1765,  Bishop  Percy  published  his  RtHqnes  ef 
English  Ballad-Poetry,  in  which  the  note  of  recall  be- 
came an  imperative  and  irresistible  voice.  There  was  yet 
to  be  a  long  pause  before  tiw  tree  burgeoned  widi  hi  new 
spring,  or  the  river  burst  its  old  banks  into  a  wider  chan- 
nel ;  but  at  last  the  ear  of  the  world  caught  the  voice  of 
a  Scotc*-  plowman  singing,  at  the  plow's  tail,  <•  A  man's 
a  man  tor  a'  tha^**  and  at  tiie  brookiide  to  hii  Maiy 
in  Heaven  " ;  and  then,  in  the  fullness  of  the  time,  came 
Wordsworth,  speaking  from  the  dewy  calmness  of  the 
English  mountains,  and  Shelly  from  the  passionate  air  of 
Italy.  But  all  this  WW  notrevohition:  HwMdefelop- 
ment  The  change  was  not  arWtnuy :  it  was  inei^table 
from  the  nature  of  things,  and  was  part  of  that  vast  proc- 
ess of  evolution  which  in  the  world  of  letters  is  as  dis- 
tinct &  law  n  in  tlw  worid  of  nature. 

Where,  then,  modem  literature  nuy  be  laid  to  bqjia  ft 
is  difficult  to  determine,  and  is  a  point  one  can  scarcely 
determine  without  adopting  some  arbitrary  law  of  criti- 
dm,  such  at  tiie  general  order  of  histoiy  fotbidB. 
Speaking  generally,  however,  it  may  be  lald  tiiat  tfae  old 
movement  exhausted  itself  in  Pope,  and  from  that  point 
a  new  era  did  b^.  The  poeby  of  Goldsmith  and  Cow- 
per  is  entirdy  diffinteot  from  die  poetry  of  Pope  and  Gay. 
Recurring  again  to  our  iDuitration,  we  may  say  that 
while  the  stream  flows  on,  one  and  indivisible,  swelled  by 
many  rivulets  and  springs,  yet  it  is  quite  possible  to  ifAr 
km  its  banks,  and  to  mark  certain  alteratimia  in  fts  ciiar* 
acter  as  it  passes  onward  to  its  fuller  life.  We  notice  dif- 
ferences of  cokHir,  of  speed,  and  of  tempeatuie.  As 


U    THE  M^y^f™  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBY 


the  volune  of  English  literature  has  increased  its  variety 
has  also  increased.  It  has  become  more  flexible,  more 
various  in  power,  more  complex  in  its  naanifold  remits* 
It  fdlecta  the  Hgto  of  thought  md  pawlon  more  clearly, 
and  it  is  readier  to  catch  the  shifting  side-lights  of  the 
times.  In  a  thousand  ways  the  literature  of  to-day  dif- 
fers from,  and  in  a  hundred  ways  transcends,  the  litera- 
ture of  die  ei^teentii  century.  Into  this  vast  subject  it 
is  not  my  province  to  enter ;  it  is  enough  for  me  to  point 
out,  even  in  this  general  way,  what  I  mean  by  modem 
English. 

The  second  prnut  to  which  I  would  ask  attention  is 

the  nature  of  the  studies  contained  in  this  series.  The 
age  in  which  we  live  is  an  age  of  many  books  and  few 
readers.  Does  this  appear  a  paradox  ?  It  is  eiqplaliicd 
by  what  we  mean  by  a  reader."  The  true  reader  is  a 
man  who  applies  patience  and  industry  to  books,  and  is 
contented  with  nothing  less  than  their  actual  mastery. 
He  is  in  earnest  in  his  work,  and  "  reads,  marks,  learns, 
and  inwardly  digests"  his  books.  How  many  do  this? 
There  is  reading  in  plenty,  but  digestion  is  rare.  The 
very  plethora  of  books  has  produced  literary  dyspepsia. 
But  there  is  another  reason  for  the  growth  of  books  and 
^  haste  witii  wfaidi  ftey  su  devoured— mt  d^^ested. 
The  pace  of  life  has  vastly  increased  since  the  nineteenth 
century  dawned.  Leisure  has  almost  disappeared.  The 
railway  has  altered  everything.  It  is  true  that  he  who 
runs  may  read,  but  mudi  <^  our  reading  has  to  be  takm 
running.  The  vast  mass  of  readers  have  no  time  to 
devote  to  intricate  literary  problems  and  the  ever-mul- 
tiplying details  of  literary  history.  They  are  interested 
in  books,  they  fed  the  fascination  of  Uterature,  but 
Oney  are  destitute  of  diat  leisure  for  contempiatiott  ia 


INTBODUOIQBT 


which  a  jint  critidsm  grows  up,  and  a  sound  personal 
opinion  on  the  pn^tlems  of  literature  can  be  formed. 
They  have  no  shelter  to  grow  ripe,  no  leisure  to  grow 
wise  "—to  quote  the  pregnant  Use  of  IfilUmw  AmM. 
It  follows,  therefo    that  for  this  vas'  mass  of  readers  a 
sort  of  middleman  is  needed,  who  will  do  for  them  what 
they  auittot  do  for  themsdm,  and  the  critic  may 
shdter  himself  under  Mr.  Leslie  Stqphta^  toienyMM>  . 
suraiice,  that  he  who  tells  us  sincerely  what  he  thinks 
always  tells  us  something  worth  knowing.    It  may  not 
be  a  very  dignified  description  of  the  critic  to  call  him 
a  "  middleman  " ;  but  that  is  what  lie  raally       Hm  . 
middleman  of  literature.   But  if  it  is  not  a  very  dignified' 
appellation,  certainly  the  function  performed  is  a  very 
oieftil  one,  and  one  tiiat  in  diis  age  of  many  books  and . 
little  leisure  is  becoming  an  increasingly  Important  offiee; 

For  instance,  take  in  illustration  of  this  statement 
such  ahtttory  as  SheUey's.   The  Shelley  literature  has 
now  become  ahnoit  a  lanaiy  in  itself.  It  ranges  through 
every  variety  of  detrwtion  and  adulation.  TooneUof 
rapher  Shelley  is  a  monster  of  pollution,  to  another 
a  saviour  of  society,  who,   under  favourable  circum- 
Mances,  might  have  become  the  saviour  of  the  world." 
Mr.  Cordy  JeafTreson  has  written  a  huge  book  on  the 
subject,  and  Mr.  Edward  Dowden  has  written  a  stiU 
larger.   Mr.  Jeaffreson's  book  was  the  unauthorized 
version  of  SheBey's  life,  hi  which  men  complained  that 
everything  against  SheUey  was  stated  with  a  tort  of 
malicious  veracity,  and  often  with  a  lack  of  insight  and 
sympathy  which  led  to  actual  perversion  of  the  truth. 
On  the  other  hand.  Mr.  Dowden's  critics  complained 
tliat  he  glossed  over  the  reaUy  difficult  points  in  SheUey's 
strange  histwy,  and  was  nuikd  by  his  ^ayi^y  farto 


16    TOE  MAKERS  OF  ENOUSH  FOETBY 

•a  equal  pervenioii  of  the  truth.  Then,  besides  these 
two  gmt  representatives  of  the  two  OMeatiaUy  divergent 
irimmttSMky,  thm  ii  a  heit  of  witen,  essayists, 
pods,  and  critics  of  the  first  water,  wko  hmv  wrIltM 
wUh  more  or  less  acuteness,  and  more  or  Im  diflTuse- 
MM,  on  the  same  subject  Shellqr  has  been  pronounced 
vfler  aad  mam  duwerous  than  Byron,  and  has  been 
pictured  as  a  pure  and  holy  being,  whose  boots  Byraa 
was  not  worthy  to  black.  Evoy  shade  of  vituperation 
•ad  praise  Ues  between  these  extremes.  Nor  is  the 
brttle  of  tfa«  books  over.  It  is  very  weU  for  Mr. 
Dowden  to  write  Last  Words  oa  ShtDsy,  but  Hm  hst 
word  is  not  said  yet  At  this  very  moment  probably 
there  are  half-a-doxen  writers  who  believe  that  they 
Iww  a  frash  view  of  Shdley  to  present,  and  are  deter- 
mined to  produce  an  epoch-making  bode  l«Hrffwiit 

Now,  what  is  the  plain  practical  man,  the  intelli- 
gent but  unleisured  reader,  to  do  amid  this  babble  of 
toaguet?  Obviously  he  cannot  for  himself  sort  aU  the 
evidence,  and  stuc^aU  the  books  on  Sbdley,  and  yet, 
perhaps,  he  feels  a  deep  curiosity  to  know  more  of  that 
strange  and  visiouuy  spirit  whose  winged  words  have 
darinated  Imn.  He  wants  to'  know  what  relation  his 
poetry  hm  to  the  other  poetry  of  his  time^  and  what  is 
the  true  secret  of  his  wayward  life.   To  such  a  reader 
the  literary  middleman  is  an  ambassador  of  peace.  He 
way  not  loow  everything,  for  "we  are  none  of  us 
infallible,  not  even  the  youngest  <rf'  us" ;  bttf  he  knows 
more  than  the  reader  who  can  only  take  his  literary 
diet  by  snatches.   It  is  for  him  to  give  as  fairly  as  he 
can  the  rssult  of  his  own  reading,  the  impression  which 
a  famous  poet's  poetry  has  had  upon  hh^  ^  general 
estimate  which  he  has  been  led  to  torn  botli  of  tfM 


It 

man  and  Us  mMte.  Of  mwm^  H  bt  irMnliJ 
that  aU  the  busy  man  gets  from  the  critic,  fhm.  k 
after  aU  the  critic's  mere  personal  view  of  the  matter. 
Alt  after  an  that  is  what  the  most  accompUshed  critic 
gives  us,  and  he  gives  ut  ao  aora.  Tke  worth  of  Ut 
verdict,  and  the  laws  by  which  i'.  is  attained,  depend 
on  the  qualities  of  his  own  mind.  According  to  his 
owwniaeat  wiU  be  the  worth  of  his  judgment;  but  his 
own  personal  judgment  ii,wiMaaUi9  done,  the  one  gift 
the  critic  has  to  give. 

™*  ^  »>rie^.  *e  object  of  this  book.  It 

■  to  put  before  the  reader  in  a  compact  form  what 
can  be  said  of  the  character  aad  worth  of  witen  who 
have  made  English  literature  glorious.   Tho  -rrttimato 
may  be  imperfect,  the  verdict  maybe  wrong:  but  it 
wID  be  hoaestly  given,  as  far  as  the  knowledge  and 
conviction  of  tho  wril«r  are  concereed;  to  wuS  it  j. 
only  necessary  to  add,  thi«  eveiy  wise  reader  will 
reconsider  the  verdict  for  himself,  and  will,  as  far  as 
W»  opportunitiei  aUow,  avaU  himself  of  those  legitimate 
sources  of  information  on  whkh  any  cttinate  of  any 
writer  must  be  based.   The  astonishing  cheapnesa  of 
books  puts  such  sources  of  information  within  the  reach 
ofateiost  all  tOHlay.and  the  process  of  education  wiU 
m  another  generatioa  leavo  no  excuse  for  thoae  who 
have  not  read  the  great  masterpieces  of  that  long  Une  of 
English  writers  who  have  made  the  i«.-««*«Tith  < 
famous. 


n 

THE  INTERVAL  BEFORE  THE  DAWN 

WE  have  seen  that  in  Alexander  Pope  one  great 
period  of  Enghsh  literature  found  its  consum- 
mation and  its  close.  He  was  the  last  master 
of  a  style  of  poetry  distinguished  by  a  species  of  hard  and 
artificial  brilliance,  intellectual  rather  Han  emotional,  deal- 
ing with  philosophic  niceties  rather  than  the  great  pas- 
sions and  common  thoughts  of  men,  excelling  in  epigram- 
matic force  and  satirical  incisiveness,  but  destitute,  or 
neariy  destitute,  of  tenderness  and  pathos,  and,  above  aU, 
marked  by  a  total  indiflerence  to  nature.  It  is  a  clipped 
and  gravelled  garden  in  which  the  poets  of  Pope's  school 
walk,  never  in  the  fresh  fields  and  true  presence  of  na- 
ture. Their  treatment  of  love  k  as  artificial  as  their 
treatment  of  nature :  it  is  mere  conventional  rhodomon- 
tade  of  "  Dying  swains  to  sighing  Delias."  They  hear 
no  lark  singing  at  heaven's  gate  as  did  Shakespeare,  and 
toavel  dirough  no  mcmiing  meadows  firesh  with  dew  m 
did  Chaucer. 

The  childlike  simplicity  of  Chaucer,  garrulous,  unaf- 
fected, bewitching  by  the  magic  of  an  art  that  scarcely 
seems  to  be  art  at  all,  was  entirdy  foi^otten  1^  the  men 
of  thr  earlier  decades  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
magnificent  force  of  the  Elizabethan  poets  was  even  ab- 
horrent to  them.  In  Marlowe  they  saw  nothing  but  the 
violent  and  untrained  imagination  of  a  baibarian,  and 
Shakespeare  himself  was  disallowed  the  full  diploma  of 
their  af^fMroval.   Spenser  was  left  in  complete  obscurity, 

18 


THE  INTERVAL  BEFORE  THE  DAWN  19 


and  the  passionate  and  fanciful  lyrics  of  Elizabethan  lit- 
erature, excelling  as  they  do  in  the  most  delicate  and  ten- 
der workmanship  of  which  poetry  is  capable,  were  wholly 
forgotten.  Then  came  the  faint  signs  of  a  new  era,  but 
they  were  slow  and  intermittent.  There  was  an  interval 
before  the  dawn,  an  interval  between  the  dying  of 
the  old  and  the  birth  of  the  new.  The  voices  that 
heralded  the  return  to  nature  were  solitary  voices,  like 
the  unaccompanied  song  of  the  lark  in  the  gray  morn- 
ing skies,  when  the  light  is  thickening  and  before  the 
day  has  broken.  It  will  be  well  before  passing  to  the 
worid  of  modern  English  to  enumerate  those  who  stood 
upon  its  threshold,  and  were  its  heralds  and  its  architects. 

There  is,  first  of  all,  a  group  of  writers,  in  which  the 
spirit  of  Pope's  poetry  survived,  and  in  whose  work  the 
ideals  of  the  didactic  school  made  their  last  stand.  Dr. 
Johnson's  Vanity  of  Human  Wukts  is  a  sample  of  this 
school.  It  is  a  stately  and  pompous  poem,  full  of  careful 
phrases,  polished  into  epigrammatic  force,  and  not  with- 
out  a  certain  pathos  in  its  descriptions,  which,  however, 
springs  largely  from  what  we  know  of  the  early  struggles 
of  Johnson  himself.  Young's  Night  Thoughts  and 
Churchill's  Satires  belong  to  the  same  school,  but  still 
further  mark  the  process  of  disintegration.  The  poems 
of  Gray  and  Collins  contain  a  different  element,  and  in 
one  sense  may  be  said  to  stand  unclassed  and  isolated. 
They  are  among  the  finest  examples  we  possess  of  stu- 
dious, scholariy,  exquisite  wwkmanship  in  poetry.  Every 
word  is  weighed  in  the  finest  balances  of  judicious  crit- 
icism, and  every  phrase  is  turned  with  the  utmost  nicety. 
They  breathe  the  spirit  of  classic  and  artistic  culture. 
They  are  not  wholly  free  from  the  aflectation  of  tiieir  age, 
but  their  w«4c  IS  so  excdfettt  that  we  are  rardix  coos^MM 


5 


iO    THB  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBY 


fliis  ^tefect  GMdsinitii  reckoned  tiiat  ten  lines  of 
poetry  was  a  good  day's  work,  but  Gray  calculated  that 
years  were  well  filled  in  the  perfecting  of  so  short  a  poem 
as  the  Elegy. 

Gnv  is  abo  remarkaUe  for  anotlier  dement  wfaidi  was 

to  be  a  very  striking  feature  of  the  new  school  of  poets, 
viz.,  a  sense  of  the  romantic  past.  The  old  wild  stories 
of  chivahy  and  daring  fascirtated  him,  as  they  fatally  fas- 
dna;:ed  C3iatter  on  altttle later.  In  Chatterton  indeed  we 
have  tiie  first  and  fullest  expression  of  the  romantic  ele- 
ment of  modern  poetry.  The  old  grandeur  of  phrase 
which  distinguished  the  £lizabethan  writers  leaps  up 
again  in  him,  and  the  rtem  simplicity  and  tn^c  force  of 
tiie  older  ballad-writers  is  again  exemplified.  And  yet 
another  writer  who  in  no  small  degree  helped  on  the 
change  was  James  MacPherson,  who  published  his  Ossian 
in  1762.  To  many  nuxtem  readers  Ossiam  seems  a  wild 
farrago  of  formless  bombast ;  but  to  the  men  of  the  latter 
part  of  the  eighteenth  century  it  was  a  revelation.  It  is 
known  that  it  powerfully  affected  Scott,  and  was  to  him 
a  valuable  stimiUus  to  poetic  qreation.  Wild  and  chaotic 
as  it  was  in  form,  it  occasionally  reached  a  grandeur  of 
imagination  and  lai^eness  of  phrase  wholly  astonishing 
and  new  to  those  who  looked  upon  didactic  poetry  as  the 
final  crasumnutKMi  of  all  poetic  form  and  utterance.  It 
was  steeped  in  nature,  it  painted  the  impressiveness  of 
savage  scenery,  the  lonely  vastness  of  moor  and  ocean, 
the  brpken  magnificence  of  wild  seacoasts,  as  no  one  had 
done  before,  and  wi&  tite  fitshne-s  and  fifankness  <tf  an 
evicteit  delight 

To  poets  who  never  ventured  beyo»;d  a  park  or  garden, 
and  thought  tliat  Fleet  Street  provided  every  interest  that 
human  imaginaHon  couki  dotre,  the  wild  wMk  of  Mae- 


THE  INTERVAL 


»BB  THE  DAWN  91 


Pherson  wm  a  revehtimi.  He  had  managed  to  utter  a 
need  which  had  long  been  silenced  ia  die  hearts  <tf  men» 
the  need  of  communion  with  nature.  Not  the  d^wted 
nature  of  trim  gardens  and  well-oidered  parks,  but  nature 
in  her  solitude,  her  sternness,  her  terror;  the  majesty  of 
her  scarred  and  tempest-riven  rocks,  die  pmnpandqileii. 
dour  of  her  skies  and  seas,  the  "  mountain  glory  "  and 
the  "  mountain  gloom,"  the  nature  that  Turner  was  to 
paint,  the  skies  that  Shelley  was  to  picture,  the  sea  whose 
boundless  and  eternal  freedom  Bynm  was  torif^.tte 
mountains  whose  ever-shifting  pageant,  ranging  from  the 
vision  of  magic  colouring  and  airy  distance  to  the  sub- 
limity of  tempest  and  trailing  storm-cJoud,  Ruskin  was  to 
describe  with  unapproachable  fidelity^  and  etoqueace. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem  to  those  who  disinter  from  their 
obscure  i^ravf;  the  tiresome  tirades  of  James  MacPherson 
to-day,  and  .ead  tiiem  with  impatience  and  disdain,  yet 
the  first  note  of  all  the  wealth  of  wcMfk  tqwrcseuted  in 
such  names  as  Turner,  Shelley,  Byitw,  aad  Rnddtt  it 
struck  in  his  forgotten  Ossian. 

There  wm  yet  another  writer  in  whom  the  new  spirit 
was  to  find  a  still  higher  expresdm;  that  writer  ww 
William  Cowper.  The  pathetic  story  of  Cowper's  life 
is  well  known.  What  a  strange  contradiction  the  man 
seems  I  The  writer  of/ekH  Gilpin  and  the  Olney  Hymns, 
the  despairing  suicide  and  the  brilliant  humotnist;  em 
the  force  of  contrast  go  farther  ?  How  incomprehensible 
it  seems  that  the  man  who  wrote  "  God  moves  in  a  myi- 
terioia  way  "  shouM  abo  write  about  himself  thus:— 

Hatred  and  vengeance — my  eternal  pofdOBt 
Scarce  can  endure  delay  of  execntioa-* 
Wait  with  impatient  readiness  to ! 
Seal  in  a  moment. 


S2    THE  MAKEBft  OF  EHOLSaH  POEIBT 


Mas  (finTows  ind  DeHjr  diiowiii  ne ; 

Hell  might  afford  my  miseries  a  shelter, 
Therefore  Hell  keeps  her  ever-huagry  mouths 
AS  bolted  ttywtntt  me. 

How  tragic  is  the  reflection  that  the  sweet  singer  who 
has  done  so  much  to  inspire  cheerfuhiess  and  trittt  in 

others  should  write  of  himself,  "  I  feel  a  wish  that  I  had 
never  been,  a  wonder  that  I  am,  and  an  ardent  but  hope- 
less desire  not  to  be  I"  The  secret  of  this  immense 
despair  was  in  the  £act  that  Cowper's  ddicate  Sf^t  was 
crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  intoleraUe  theological 
problems — the  riddle  of  "  this  unintelligible  world."  It 
was  Cowper  who  introduced  the  theological  element  into 
English  poetry,  and  it  has  worlnd  unsuspected  resuttt 
both  for  poetry  and  theology. 

But  Cowper  also  introduced  another  element — the 
utmost  simplicity  and  unaffected  naturalness  of  style,  and 
a  true  and  beautiful  love  of  nature.  Far  away  from  the 
vex^d  and  crowded  life  of  cities  he  lived  in  the  heart  of 
natilre,  and  his  own  heart  was  ever  open  to  her  inspira- 
ticm.  When  he  described  the -flowers,  the  clouds,  the 
weather,  he  did  so  with  an  inimitable  Bddity.  He  put 
down  just  what  he  saw  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  one 
might  say  almost  with  a  scientific  simplicity.    In  this 

}wper  was  intensely  modem.  Nothing  is  better  wor^ 
study,  or  would  prove  more  interesting,  than  to  trace 
how  the  scientific  spirit  of  description  has  grown  in  Eng- 
lish poetry.  The  earlier  eighteenth  century  poets  de- 
scribe what  they  never  saw,  and  what  they  had  never 
taken  the  trouble  to  identify.  Hence,  because  th^  have 
never  really  studied  nature  for  themselves,  they  perforce 
fall  back  upon  the  stock  phrases  of  artificial  description. 
In  this  they  stand  aloof  bodi  from  tiie  eariiert  English 


THE  INTERVAL  BEFORE  THE  DAWN  28 

poets  and  the  latest.  Chaucer  tells  us  jurt  what  he  sees- 
he  makes  us  fed  diat  he  hai  teen  it,  and  we  see  it  too. 

Tennyson,  in  like  manner,  has  brought  the  moat  vigilant 
observation  to  bear  on  all  natural  phenomena  which  he 
has  described.   The  botanist  cannot  improve  on  his  de- 
scripticm  of  a  flower,  nor  tiie  naturalist  on  his  |Hcture  of 
the  way  in  which  a  bird  flies  or  a  wave  breaks.   We  have 
now  become  used  to  this  species  of  scientific  accuracy  in 
poetic  description,  and  we  resent  the  loose  and  inaccurate 
generalities  o(  which  many  poets  are  still  guilty.  But 
the  true  author  of  this  change  was  Cowper.   He  was  the 
forerunner  of  Wordsworth.    He  wrote  of  nature,  not 
because  it  was  part  of  the  stock  business  of  a  poet  to  do 
so,  but  because  he  k>ved  her.   He,  too,  had  fdt  tiie 
"  impulse  of  a  vernal  wood,"  and  he  knew  that  nature, 
when  reverently  studied,  has  secrets  to  teach  which 
neither  sage  nor  scholar  can  unfold.   Few  read  Cowper 
to-day.   His  Task  has  verified  its  title,  »ai  men  weaiy 
of  it  midway.    Cowper  is  known  rather  by  his  h3mii» 
and  a  few  brief  lyrics  than  by  his  more  serious  and  ambi- 
tious poems.   But  it  was  nevertheless  William  Cowper 
who  was  Ac  hendd  of  the  modem  sdiool  of  poets,  and 
who  sang  the  glories  of  the  (ky  when  13»  dawn  had 
scarcely  broken. 

Not  less  marked  was  the  change  effected  in  poetry  in 
rdation  to  its  human  interests.  Cowper  loved  man  as 
well  as  nature.  In  this  he  was  the  precursor  of  a  great 
line  of  great  poets.  In  place  of  violent  satire  on  the 
follies  of  the  great,  Cowper  gave  us  sympathetic  descrip- 
tiom  of  tile  kbour  and  sorrows  <tf  tiie  poor.  In  this  he 
was  followed  by  Gtorge  Oabbe,  whose  descriptions  are 
equally  sympathetic,  but  more  realistic.  Crabbe  has 
even  fewer  readers  than  Cowper  to-day,  and  is  only 


U    THE  1CAXSB8  OF  SN0L1B&  FOBTET 


known  to  many  readers  as  tlie  « Jdm  Richard  W3liam 
Alexander  Dyrer  "  of  Horace  Smidi's  RiftOtd  AtUnsm  ; 

yet  he  was  a  true  poet,  and  deserves  a  better  fate.  John 
Murray  said  truly  that  Crabbe  said  uncommon  things  in 
a  common  way,  and  perhaps  it  is  the  homeliness  of  his 
verse  which  has  done  mudi  to  obscure  its  gicat  quali- 
ties. Byron  called  him  "  Nature's  sternest  painter  and 
the  best";  Wordsworth  predicted  for  him  immortality; 
Scott  read  him  with  renewed  and  fresh  delight  in  old 
age;  Tennyson  says, «  Crabbe  has  a  worid  of  his  own"; 
while  Newman,  in  one  of  his  "  Addresses  to  the  Catho- 
lics of  Dublin,"  tells  us  that  he  had  read  one  of  his  poems 
*•  on  its  first  publication  with  extreme  delight,"  and  again, 
twenty  years  after,  with  even  more  emotiott,  «Mi  y«t 
again,  twenty  years  after  that,  with  undiminished  interest, 
and  adds  that "  whether  for  conception  or  execution  "  it 
is  one  of  Ae  most  touching  poems  in  the  language.* 

It  seems  strange  that  a  poet  vrbote  diioB  are  so  unani- 
mously endorsed  by  the  most  competent  judges  should 
have  &llen  into  such  complete  oblivion,  and  perhaps  the 
real  reason  lies  in  the  defidoicies  of  metrical  art  which 
appear  in  Crabbe's  poetry,  and  the  caidessacss  of  his 
diction  as  compared  with  the  metrical  refinement  of  later 
verse.  Crabbe  is  a  poet  who  wears  worsted ;  but,  homely 
as  he  is,  his  writings  have  some  of  the  qualities  of  the 
greatest  poetry.  It  is  in  realism  Oat  his  force  lies.  Ht 
has  little  humour ;  he  is  in  deadly  earnest  He  goes  to 
the  jail,  the  workhouse,  the  hospital,  the  half-mint 
cottage,  for  his  themes.  He  pictures  the  shameful 
squalor,  the  hard  life,  die  uapitied  igaofaace,  and  &e 
humble  heroisms  of  the  poor.  He  tells  his  tale  of  shame 
and  ruin  with  a  grave  simplicity  and  directr  ss  of  state- 
*  Vite  liUnuy  Xemaiiu  •/ Edmari  FiHgtMU,  ToL  ii^  490^ 


THE  DTTERyAL  BEFORE  THE  DAWN  S6 


ment  which  is  whoUy  tragic.  He  is  the  spokesman  of 
the  ignorant  and  neglected  He  utters  their  appeal 
against  the  social  system  of  their  time,  and  in  titis  Crabbr 
was  the  literary  herald  of  the  great  Revolution. 

With  the  French  Revolution  an  entirely  new  spirit 
was  breathed  into  European  literature.    The  social 
problems  of  the  times  were  forced  upon  the  minds  of  aD 
men  of  letters,  and  especially  of  the  poets.   This  is  again 
one  of  the  most  distinctive  features  of  modern  English 
literature.  The  social  problem  is  to-day  the  great  problem 
of  Europe.   It  engages  the  perpetual  though  of  states- 
men, and  it  presses  heavily  upon  the  hearts  of  all 
imaginative  writers.   A  large  section  of  the  poetry  of 
our  day  is  fun  of  bitter  invective  on  the  tragedies  endured 
by  the  poor,  and  an  increasing  section  of  our  fictioB  is 
animated  by  tiie  same  spirit   The  beginning  of  this 
movement  is  in  Crabbe  and  Cowper.   With  the  dawn  of 
Ae  Revolution,  there  rose  up  poets  who  uttered  the  same 
cry  with  infinitely  greater  bitterness,  and  expressed  tlie 
same  spirit  with  an  agonized  intensity,  a  passionate  daring 
and  poignancy,  whoUy  transcending  the  works  of  Crabbe 

^  ^y^'  ^»  we  have  seen, these  poets  lived 
ui  tiw  interval 

Hciwceu  two  trarids— MM  4w>J^ 
ne  odMr  powedns  ta  be  bora. 

n  ey,  however,  were  its  prophets.  They  strudc  the  fint 

e  of  the  new  music.  They  perceived  the  drift  of 
thought,  and  watched  the  first  trailing  vapoure  of  the  ap- 
proaching storai.  By  the  time  their  work  was  done  new 
spirits  were  at  wolft,  and  Bums,  Wofdswofft,  Byitm,  and 
Shelley  were  inaqguntliig  the  ae«p  age  «Ueh  ii  .our 
heritage  to-diy.  ^ 


Ill 


ROBERT  BURNS 

B»n$  tt  Halltteay,  Ayr,  ij^g.  Poems  chitfy  in  the  Ste/tisk 
dialect,  published  ij86.  Reprinted  with  nddUinm,  If8f,  Tht 
Prayer  tf  Holy  Willie,  1789.  Tarn  O'Shanter,  jfgo.  AUmt  H 
The  DeU,  17^4.    Died  at  Dumfries,  July  31,  Ijg6. 

WE  have  named  Robert  Bums  as  truly  the  first 
singer  of  the  new  era,  and  since  Burns  repre- 
lents  so  much,  he  demands  more  than  the 
concise  brevity  of  a  paragraph.  He  accepted  the  ideals 
of  Crabbe  and  Cowper,  and  carried  on  the  revolution 
they  had  commenced,  but  it  was  with  large  and  im- 
portant differences.  It  must  not  be  fiMgotten  tiut  these 
great  poets  were  contemporaries.  While  Crabbe  in  1783 
was  beginning  his  series  of  life-pictures  of  the  poor,  and 
Cowper  in  1785  was  feeling  his  .  'ay  towards  a  more  sim- 
ple and  unaflected  style  of  poetry,  Bums  in  1786  was 
rousing  genuine  enthusiasm  in  Scotland  by  the  publica- 
tion of  the  first  poems  of  genius  in  Scottish  dialect  which 
had  enriched  the  literature  of  Scotland  for  many  years. 
Like  Cowper,  he  described  nature  widi  admiraUe  sim- 
plicity, but  with  a  terseness  and  exquisiteness  of  ex- 
pression which  Cowper  never  gained.  Like  Crabbe,  he 
described  "  the  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor,"  but 
it  was  widi  a  more  moving  sympathy,  a  deeper  pathos, 
and  a  concentration  and  fafffliuee  of  phrase  whi^  Qdtbe 
never  acquired. 
So  far  the  work  of  Burns  resembles  the  work  of  Ciabbe 

as 


ROBEBT  BURNS 


IT 


and  Cowper,  but  no  further.  Burns  brought  to  his  task 
a  broad  humour  and  incisive  wit  which  neither  of  his 
EngUih  rivab  could  emulate.  He  wm  himself  a  poor 
man,  a  man  of  the  soil,  a  son  of  labour,  and  he  dfffribfd 
what  such  a  life  was,  not  from  the  calm  heights  of  ob- 
servation, but  from  actual  experience.  Above  all,  he  did 
wliat  neither  Crabbe  nor  Cowper  could  accomplish— he 
saiiK  of  love.  He  sang  of  it  with  a  full,  passionate  utter- 
aiiCK,  a  grace  and  a  fire  unknown  in  English  poetry  for 
upwards  of  a  century.  There  was  the  magic  of  enchant- 
ment in  hk  song.  His  lyrics  have  a  sweetness  and  a 
poignancy  all  their  own.  They  sing  themselves  into  the 
universal  heart.  As  a  love-poet  he  is  "'wnipaMicd  and 
unapproachable.  Such  lines  as 

Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly. 
Never  met— or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  hroken-heamd, 

are        rtal.    Scott  said  they  had  tiie  essence  of  a 

thousa.»d  love  stories  in  them.  They  utter  in  the  simplest 
but  most  patheUc  fashion  the  experience  of  multitudes. 
And  in  aU  his  lyrics,  whether  of  love  or  nature,  there  is 
an  abandonment  and  freshness  which  aie  «ap&nldttg. 
It  is  beautiful  to  remember,  when  we  read  these  exquisite 
love-verses,  that  the  women  who  inspired  them  were 
farm-gii^,  domestic  servants— Scotch  maidens  met  at  a 
dance  or  in  the  harvest-field,  aU  of  them  used  to  toil,  and 
born  to  toil,  and  living  a  life  far  more  akin  to  drudgeiy 
than  romance.  Yet  no  heroine  of  ancient  or  mediaeval 
song  ever  had  mote  beautiful  things  said  of  her  than  this 
child  of  the  plow  addressed  to  the  comrades  o(  his  Jar 
bour.  In  nt^hing  doa  the  manliness  and  ofjjiM^  of 


t8    THE  MAKKBS  OF  mGUBB,  fOBIBT 


Bums's  genius  show  to  better  advutige.  He  was  so 
truly  a  child  of  the  people  that  he  found  amoi^  tiie  peo> 

pie  with  whom  he  lived  all  the  elements  needful  for  the 
nurture  of  his  genius,  all  the  materials  requisite  for  hk 
immortal  songit 

There  is  not  much  that  is  new  that  can  be  said  about 
the  life  of  Burns.  The  story  has  become  an  epic,  and  the 
epic  is  known  to  all  the  world.  It  is  something  of  a  mis- 
conception  which  describes  Bums  as  a  plowman :  he  was 
rather  a  small  yeoman,  bom  of  a  race  of  small  farmen, 
hard-headed,  industrious,  fond  of  reading, sober,  religious; 
precisely  that  class  which  is  the  strength  and  pride  of 
Soodand  to-day.  His  father  was  a  man  considerably 
superior  to  the  class  in  whidi  he  moved;  ami  a  strof^ 
taste,  almost  amounting  to  a  thirst,  for  knowledge,  was  one 
of  the  leading  characteristics  of  the  home  in  which  Bums 
was  bom.   But  whatever  was  the  precise  social  position 

of  Bums,  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  one  tiling  ^vis., 

his  passionate  love  of  the  people.  In  his  poetry  it  is  the 
human  element  that  is  supreme.  For  the  mere  pictur- 
esque side  of  nature,  as  such,  he  had  no  great  love ;  nature 
is  everywhere  in  his  poetry  tbe  badq^roiad  for  man. 
Not  that  he  did  not  love  nature ;  he  loved  her  as  few  poets 
have  loved  her.  His  poems  are  full  of  those  short,  crisp 
phrases,  those  felicitous  touches  of  description,  whidi 
bring  before  us  in  an  instant,  witii  magical  deamess  and 
beauty,  the  aspects  of  nature  in  all  her  seasons,  and  all 
her  moods.  But  when  Bums  looked  at  a  landscape  it  was 
not  to  brood  over  its  beauty,  and  to  invent  exquisite 
phrases  with  a  laborious  sldll  to  ittterfHVt  it  That  ii 
Tennyson's  method,  and  living  and  beautiful  as  his  touches 
of  natural  description  always  are,  yet  they  are  seldom 
quite  spontaneous.  We  are  pretty  sure  they  have  been 


comcted,  sublinuted,  refined  to  the  very  last  degree  he 

fore  they  were  tubniltedtDtiMtMt  or  publidlx.  What 
Bums  describes  nature,  it  is  always  with  ft  npid  ande«y 
touch,  as  one  who  thinks  less  of  nature  than  of  the  human 
toO  aad  p«rioo  tor  which  nature  is  the  background. 
Nothing  reaaiiM  to-day  of  Burm't  briOiaBt  oonvvnatiott 
among  the  notables  of  Edinburgh,  during  his  firat  visit  to 
that  dty  in  the  early  days  of  his  fame,  but  one  little  story 
wW«h  Dttfidd  Stnnut  recalls.    He  and  Burns  had 
climbed  the  Bnid  Hills  in  the  evly  morning,  and  were 
looking  down  upon  the  fair  plains,  fuU  of  the  dewy  fresh- 
n«s  of  the  morning  glory.   Stewart  expressed  his  ad- 
nrfwtkm  of  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  beautiful  indeed 
it  was.  But  Bums  had  his  eyci  fixed  upon  thelittle 
cluster  of  cottages  at  his  feet,  v  th  the  rising  clouds  of 
fa^^g      ^  trailing  in  the  morning  air,  eloquent  of  the 
labooter't  eariy  meal,  and  said  the  worthiest  object  in  aU 
that  fiUr  scene  was  this  lit^  cluster  of  fadx  Jim' cottages 
knowing  as  he  did  the  wealth  of  true  character,  the  pietyi 
and  happmess,  and  contentment,  which  they  enshrined. 
It  was  a  speech  that  was  characteristic  of  the  man.  His 
mission  was  not  to  describe  nature,  but  to  ling  the  epic 
of  man.   He  has  himself  given  exceUent  *T™iqii  to 
this  idea  in  his  well-known  lines 

To  mak  a  happy  iirende  cUnw 
To  weani  and  wife. 

That's  the  tnepMhes  aad 
OrkaaMilife. 


There  are  certain  passages  ia  Bunt's  letten  which  do 

not  exactly  tally  with  this  simpUcity  of  nature,  but  the 
letters  Bums  wrote  are  the  only  bad  things  he  ever  did 
write.  They  are  artificial  and  stilted,  and  were  unwortly 


80    TH£  MAKKR8  09  BNOUSH  FQEIBY 


of  him.  For  among  the  many  weakndssa  of  Burns  tm 
the  temporary  desire  to  be  a  polite  letter-writer,  and  con- 
sequently he  has  left  a  mass  of  letters  conceived  in  fake 
sentiment,  and  wnctm  in  hkm  taste.  It  is  true  thcM  let- 
ters occasionally  give  m  vivid  insight  into  the-  heart  of 
the  man,  but  upon  the  whole  they  distort  the  true  image 
of  Burns.  They  give  us  an  unpleasant  feeling  that  under 
the  fascinaticm  of  society  the  sturdiiien  of  Bums's  char- 
acter sufiered  some  deterioration.  It  would  not  have 
been  wonderful  if  it  had.  But  any  such  lapse  was  en- 
tirely temporary,  and  lir.iitcd  in  its  results.  A  worship- 
per of  weaMi  and  power  Bums  never  was,  uor  could  be. 
He  was,  indeed,  at  times  fiercely  Republican,  and  got  into 
frequent  trouble  for  his  outspoken  political  views.  His 
heart  was  with  poor  folk,  and  he  was  happiest  amongst 
^m.  How  fttUy  ht  understood  their  wnys,  tfieir  noble 
struggles,  their  social  diflSculttcB,  let  Hik  pemge  from 
Tki  Ttoa  Dogs  declare  :— 

But  then  to  see  how  ye're  neglecldt, 
How  huff'd  an'  cufTd,  an'  disre^ecUtl 
Loid,  man,  our  gentry  carp  as  little 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  an'  sic  cattle. 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  puir  folk 
As  I  wad  \^  a  tdakin*  brack 

I've  noticed,  on  our  Laird's  court-day. 
An'  mony  a  time  my  heart's  been  wse* 
Puir  tenant  bodies,  scaat  o'  cash. 
How  diey  mana  diole  a  bctor's  raash ; 
He'll  stamp  an'  threaten,  curse  an'  s'.vear. 
He'll  apprehend  ih?m,  pmnd  their  gear. 
While  they  maun  stan',  wi'  aqwct  InmiUe, 
Aa'  hear  it  a',  an'  fear  an'  tremble  I   .   .  , 
Theie's  mony  a  crediuble  stock 
9  decent,  hoaest,  fiawsoat  folk. 


MtaHkiottaadbnuicli. 
Some  nacal't  pridefti'  greed  to  quench. 
Wba  thinks  to  knit  himwl'  the  ftnn 
In  favour  wi'  miim  gMHlt  BMiHr, 
Wha,  nililins.  tbrang  a  parliitmentin', 
For  Britaia'a  g  ukl  hit  uui  indantin'. 

Any  student  of  Bums  could  cite  at  will  a  score  orpM> 
sages  setUng  forth  with  equal  or  superior  force  of  diction 
the  conditioa  of  the  labouring  poor,  and  full  of  honest 
admiraUon  for  their  virtues,  and  sympathetic  uadentaad- 
ing  of  their  lot.    What  wonder  is  it  that  Burns  is  the 
poet  of  the  poor  ?   What  wonder  that  he  is  the  singer 
best  known  in  the  field,  the  factory,  the  mine,  the  wild 
settlements  of  disUnt  lands,  amoog  crowdl  of  lioniy> 
handed  men  who  have  known  nothing  but  hard  toil  all 
their  lives,  and  have  found  but  one  poet  who  loves  them 
and  ondentandi  them  perfectly,  who  has  written  songs 
that  they  can  comprehend,  which  bring  a  new  light  of 
sweetness  and  contentment  into  their  difficult  lot  ?  Bums 
is  the  poet  of  the  common  people,  almost  the  onfy  om, 
and  the  common  people  receive  him  gladly. 

Another  element  in  Bums  which  had  n  widr  influence 
on  hterature  was  the  mixture  of  jovial  fun,  pervasive 
"'^l.*"**  exceUent  wit  and  satire  in  which  he 
funded.   He  commanded  laughter  as  weU  as  tean 
He  had  an  irresistade  power  of  ridicule,  and  knew  hm^ 
to  use  It  with  consummate  effect.   All  that  he  did  he 
seemed  to  do  easily,  without  the  least  sense  of  effort, 
drawmg  upon  the  resources  of  a  rich  and  wholesome 
nature,  which  never  showed  tiie  remotest  sign  of  ex- 
haustion.   With  him  a  song  was  the  joyous  work  of  a 
mommg.  or  even  of  an  hour,  and  that  most  matchless 
oample  of  joviid  and  rollicking  humour,  Tam  o'  Skanter 


83    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


mm 


was  written  in  a  single  day.  As  for  tiie  satire  of  BumSi 

that  also  at  its  best  is  unsurpassable.  He  knew  how  to 
strike  with  swift  and  deadly  effect.  He  had  a  wholesome 
hatred  of  cant,  and  a  fearlessness  of  conventional  opinion, 
which  were  the  sources  of  his  satirical  vigour.  I/afy 
Willie's  Prayer  is  the  most  tremendous  blow  ever  dealt 
at  the  Calvinistic  dogma  of  Predestination.  Burns  rushed 
into  the  theological  combat  of  his  times  with  no  knowl- 
edge of  theology  be3rond  tiiat  of  the  ordinary  yeoman, 
but  with  a  splendid  endowment  of  common  sense  and 
brilliant  satirical  force,  which  enabled  him  to  do  more 
for  the  demolition  of  the  rigid  Calvinism  of  Scotland  than 
any  other  writer  who  has  assailed  it 

The  two  forces  by  which  poets  link  the  hearts  of  man- 
kind to  themselves  are  love  and  admiration.  We  may 
admire,  and  almost  worship,  but  not  love :  we  may  love, 
and  yet  be  unable  to  worship.  We  do  not  love  Shake- 
speare, Goethe,  or  Milton.  They  tower  above  us  in  an 
inaccessible  majesty.  They  are  the  mountain  heights  of 
humanity,  and  are  sacro-sanct  with  a  sublime  isolation. 
We  approach  them  with  awe  and  revnence,  and  it  is  widi 
reverence  we  habitually  remember  thran.  But  tliere  is 
another  class  of  poets  whom  we  love.  Thtir  very  frail- 
ties interpret  them  to  us  and  endear  them.  They  are 
'<  not  too  bright  and  good  for  human  nature's  daily  food." 
We  cannot  revere  them,  for  they  were  full  of  faults  and 
blemishes.  They  have  no  claim  to  majesty,  but  they 
have  the  tenderer  claim  to  sympathy.  Milton  was 
scarcely  the  sort  of  man  we  shouM  have  cared  to  live 
with.  His  own  daughters  found  it  particularly  difficult 
to  live  with  him,  and  his  first  wife  found  it  so  difficult 
that  she  ran  away  from  him.  His  friends  always  ap- 
fHToadied  him  with  a  sdemn  etiquette  sudi  as  a  uiMardi 


ROBERT  BURNS 


88 


might  demand.   But  we  should  all  have  felt  it  a  privily 
to  live  in  the  company  of  Burns.   The  geniality  of  his 
presence  w<»ild  have  filled  uxy  plac*;  with  sunl^rt;  Our 
love  would  easily  have  made  us  "  to  his  faula  a  litde 
blind."   We  should  have  forg-:      him  his  e:-  cesses,  and 
have  run  eagerly  upon  the  erran' s  of  .Tiinistration  when  he 
was  sick.   His  wcvds  of  tenderness,  his  pathetic  Ranees, 
his  wholesome  wit,  his  abundant  laughter,  his  brave 
struggles  with  poverty  and  temptation,— even  his  weak- 
nesses, would  have  endeared  him  to  us.   As  a  matter  of 
fact,  they  did  endear  him  to  his  coimtrymen,  and  they 
have  endeared  him  to  posterity.   He  has  now  tile  love  of 
countless  thousands  of  human  beings  who  never  saw  his 
face,  and  know  him  only  by  his  history.   He  was  so  in- 
tensely human  tiiat  no  human  heart  can  find  it  easy  to 
deal  harshly  with  him.   He  exerts  a  persuasive  fascinatioa 
on  mankind,  quite  independent  of  his  genius,  his  song, 
his  exquisite  '  reations  in  p<  etry.   It  is  the  fascination  of 
a  true,  loving^hearted  man,  a  man  who  sinned  mudi  and 
suffered  much,  who  had  a  hard  life,  and  fought  it  out 
bravely  as  best  he  could,  and  in  the  very  prime  of  mid- 
manhood  lay  down  to  die  in  poverty  and  broken-hearted- 
ness.  The  secret  of  the  fosdnation  of  Buim,  as  it  waa 
with  Byron,  is  in  the  man  himself  as  mudi  as  in  his  poetiy, 
and  it  is  the  individual  note  in  his  poetry,  the  strong 
personality  which  speaks  through  it,  which  gives  it  so 
wide  a  mastery  over  tiie  hearts  of  aU  kbics  and  condi- 
tions of  men. 

On  the  other  hand,  genius  is  no  apology  for  breaches 
of  tile  moral  law.  The  sort  of  explanation  which  the 
apologist  of  Bums  Kts  up  for  his  lapses  firora  sobridy 
and  virtue  to-day  is  an  explanation  which  Bums  himsdf 
wouM  have  ind^enartiy  repudiated.  He  wis  uader  ao 


34     THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


delusion  as  to  himself.  He  mourned  his  follies,  and  he 
expiated  them  in  bitter  suffering.  There  is  no  sadder 
tra^y  than  the  dosing  days  of  Bura:>  Undoubtedly 
it  is  a  reproach  to  his  time  that  the  greatest  of  Scotch 
poets  should  have  worn  his  heart  out  in  ineffectual 
struggles  with  financial  embarrassment.  But  there  were 
other  causes  also  which  deepened  the  gloom  of  those 
dark  days  at  Dumfries.  Partly  by  his  own  errors  of  con- 
duct, partly  by  his  injudicious  violence  of  political  opinion, 
he  had  estranged  his  best  friends.  He  was  sick,  poor, 
and  in  debt.  The  last  letter  he  ever  wrote  was  a  patiietic 
appeal  to  his  cousin  to  lend  him  ten  pounds,  and  save 
him  from  the  terrors  of  a  debtor's  dungeon.  It  would 
not  have  been  much  to  expect  from  that  brilliant  societ}- 
wealth  and  culture  in  Edinbui^h  that  some  help  might 
have  been  forthcoming  to  soothe  the  dying  hours  of  the 
man  it  had  once  received  with  adulation.  But  no  help 
came.  There  he  lay,  wasted  by  fever,  his  dark  hair 
thmded  with  untimdy  gray;  pow,  penniless,  over- 
whelmed with  difficulties,  but  to  the  last  writing  son||^, 
which  won  him  no  remuneration  then,  but  which  are 
now  recognized  as  the  choicest  wealth  of  the  nation 
whtdi  let  him  die  uncomforted.  Then  at  last  the  aid 
came.  Those  dark  eyes,  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  said 
"  glowed  "  with  such  an  intense  fire,  flamed  once  more, 
but  it  was  with  anger.  His  last  word  was  an  execration 
on  the  impatient  creditor  who  had  striven  to  drag  him 
from  a  dying  bed  to  prison ;  and  then  the  troubled  spirit 
passed.  It  is  the  old  story :  we  slay  the  prophets,  and 
then  build  their  sepulchres ;  to  the  living  in  their  need 
we  measure  out  n^lect,  and  reserve  our  pntecs  ftnr  ^ 
dead  who  are  bqrond  our  diari^. 


IV 

LORD  BYRON 

Born  at  HtlUs  Street.  Union,  January  22,  1788.  His  first 
f**ms  trhtteJ  at  Newark.  1807.  Mowed  in  the  same  jear  h 
Hours  of  Idleness.    First  Two  Cantos  0/  ChiU  HesroU,  fbBshti 

The  Corsair.  Lara  and  The  Ode  to  NapoUon.  j8iI  Hebrew 
Melod.es.  181S.  The  Siege  0/ Crintk  and  Parisina.  1816.  Bem. 
MareppaandDon  Juan.  1818.    Marino  Faliero  andTheProphL 

and  /V"''.  '^^  ^'^'"""^  Transformed.  Heaven 

TL^'t'       'j!*  ^""^  ^  '^"''^  Miss,. 

»nht,  Wutirm  Grttet,  jfyrU  19,1634. 

THE  later  sdence  tells  us  that  we  do  /  i  come 
into  this  world  with  a  nature  like  a  sheet  of 
white  paper,  waiting  for  any  inscriptions  we 
mxy  choose  to  write  thereon,  but  we  cany  our  ancestors 
with  us  m  our  brains  and  blood.   We  inherit  tendencies, 
and  are  apt  to  reproduce  them.    The  laws  of  hereditir 
and  environment  condition  all  human  life.   If  this  be  so 
It  must  be  confessed,  nothing  could  be  more  disastrous' 
than  the  environment  of  Byron's  life.    His  father  was  a 
rmned  profligate,  and  his  mother  a  woman  of  coaise  in- 
stincts  and  violent  temper.    It  was  his  mother's  habit  to 
mock  ha  deformity,  and  then  to  smother  him  with 
caresses.   She  had  a  tongue  fuB  of  bittemew  and  a  hand 
swift  to  smite,  and  her  habitual  treatment  of  one  of  the 
proudest  and  most  sensitive  natures  ever  fashioned  was  a 
proco»  of  alternate  violence  and  affection.   There  was 
•««»etliu«g  to  be  said  for  the  iKw  woBiMi :  her  pro^ 


86    TBE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


husband  had  squandered  the  fortune  for  which  alone  he 
had  married  her,  and  tiien  had  left  her  to  the  emptiness 
of  an  embittered  and  londy  life.  There  wu  absdutely  no 

good  influence  ever  shed  upon  the  boyhood  of  Byron. 
His  only  reply  to  his  mother's  outbreaks  of  temper  was 
a  fit  of  silent  rage,  which  occasionally  frightened  her  into 
a  tenderness  as  o^ous  to  him  as  her  brutality.  Then  tills 
L-  1,  full  of  strong  passion  and  strong  pride,  is  launched 
upon  University  life  as  it  was  in  those  bad  days,  and  it  is 
littie  wonder  tiiat  he  should  instantly  becoiue  the  leader 
diht  tetest  set  the  University  could  boast  Full  of 
humour  and  equally  given  to  melancholy,  sensitive  to  a 
d^ee  beyond  the  comprehension  of  ordinary  men,  fond 
ci  all  athletic  sports,  but  ddiarred  from  them  by  his  de- 
formity, with  an  imagination  brilliant,  powerful,  intense ; 
easily  swayed  by  either  good  or  evil  influences,  yet  also 
full  of  pride  altogether  morbid  in  its  excess,  and,  when 
oice  his  mind  was  made  up,  absolutely  stubborn,  and  of 
indomitable  will — what  future  could  tiie  moat  charitaMff 
augur  for  such  a  youth  as  this  ?  The  future  was  precisely 
the  future  such  an  endowment  indicated.  The  only  dif- 
ference between  the  boy  of  sixteen  and  the  man  of  thirty 
was  that  the  good  qualities  had  dimintehed  white  tiie  oHl 
qualities  had  ripened.  The  pride,  the  stubbomess,  the 
morbid  sensitiveness  increased  with  years ;  the  suscepti- 
bility to  tiie  influence  of  better  natures  decreased  as  his 
own  nature  developed  its  own  forces  of  will  and  Individ, 
uality,  and  that  developed  individuality  became  a  power 
to  subdue  others  by  its  own  imperious  fascination. 

On  tiie  verge  of  manhood  Byron  awoke  and  found 
himself  famous.  What  were  tiie  sources  of  his  feme? 
First  of  all  there  was,  of  course,  the  genius  which  de- 
served it   He  brought  into  poetry  an  intensity  and  pas- 


lOBB  BYRON  37 

sion  altogether  his  own.  AU  the  strength  of  his  own 
nature,  and  aU  its  weakness  too,  were  interpreted  in  his 
poetry.  No  poet  was  ever  more  fearless  in  putting  him- 
self into  his  work.   He  wrote  with  perfect  seiMmowl- 
edge.  and  he  made  the  public  the  confidant  of  his  most 
secret  thoughts.   He  had  no  reticence,  no  self-respect  in 
one  sense ;  he  flung  himself  on  the  pubUc  sympathy,  and 
poured  all  his  bitterness  into  the  public  ear.   He  did  so 
in  language  of  unequalled  force  and  beauty.   He  said 
what  he  had  to  say  with  an  energy  which  compeUed  at- 
tention.  He  cared  little  for  mere  felicities  of  construc- 
tion in  his  verse,  his  heart  was  surcharged  with  emotion, 
ind  he  poured  it  out  in  an  intense  and  overwhelming  vol- 
ume.  The  poetry  he  gave  the  pubUc  was  intensely  indi- 
vidual poetry.   Every  character  he  sketched  was  himself 
in  various  disguises,  and  the  disguise  deceived  no  one.  A 
more  undramatic  dramatist  never  lived.    He  set  up  a 
puppet  and  tried  hard  to  make  it  work,  but  it  was  useless : 
before  the  first  scene  had  ended,  the  puppet  was  always 
kicked  aside,  and  it  was  Byron  himsdf  who  was  pourii 
out  the  story  of  his  pride,  his  wrongs,  his  passionate 
hopes,  and  infinite  despair.   And  not  only  did  he  inter- 
pret himself,  but  in  a  certain  degree  hfe  times  also.  TTie 
o  d  order  was  perishing,  and  the  air  was  fuB  of  lev^ 
olution.   Without  in  the  least  sympathizing  with  the 
people— for  a  prouder  aristocrat  never  lived— he  caught 
up  the  inarticulate  ay  of  the  people  and  uttered  it  He 
wrote  with  just  that  scorn,  that  fierce  anger,  that  i«ckle« 
revolt  against  the  conventional  order  of  things,  which 
was  seething  in  thousands  of  hearts  in  the  last  days  of 
George  III,  and  tfaetn&mous  period  of  the  Regency. 
Just  as  Swift  served  the  Irish  people*  but  denM  tlmn 
and  their  phudits^so  Byn»  served  tht  damocm^,  buj 


38    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETRT 


scorned  diem ;  and  just  as  the  Irish  people  made  an  idol 
of  Swift,  so  the  English  people  made  an  idol  of  Byron. 

His  books  sold  by  thousands  on  the  first  day  of  issue. 
They  were  the  solace  of  the  student,  tlie  inspiration  of 
the  democrat,  the  secret  delight  of  the  schoolgirl ;  they 
were  read  by  noble  lords  and  needy  apprentices,  society 
beauties  and  sympathetic  dressmakers,  atheists  and  Meth- 
odists, all  kinds  and  conditions  of  men.  The  English 
people  love  a  fight,  and  Byron  was  fighting  the  Reviews, 
the  solemn  critics  whose  word  had  hitherto  been  as  the 
law  of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  the  social  proprieties,  the 
edicts  of  conventional  opinion,  the  King  and  the  Court 
— and  the  people  cheered  him  on.  He  became,  in  a 
word,  the  idol  of  the  people,  and  every  exnss,  every  au- 
dacity of  opinion  or  of  conduct,  was  eagerly  condoned 
to  one  so  young,  so  brave,  so  famous,  and  so  splendidly 
endowed. 

Then,  also,  we  must  take  into  account  the  personal 
beauty  of  Byron  himself.  With  that  one  terrible  excep- 
tion of  the  club-foot,  which  was  his  torturing  thorn  in  the 
flesh,  he  had  the  face  and  figure  of  an  Adonis.  Both  foce 
and  figure  were  cast  in  the  very  finest  mould  of  manly 
grace.  Some  one  spoke  of  his  face  as  being  like  a  mask 
of  perfect  alabaster,  lit  up  by  a  great  light  which  glowed 
within.  The  shapely  head,  with  its  dose  clusto^ng  curls, 
was  like  the  head  of  a  Gredc  god.  Nor  was  his  grace 
merely  physical :  there  was  an  exquisite  charm  of  manner 
which  distinguished  him.  He  was  a  perfect  actor,  and  the 
sadness  of  broken  hope  which  he  had  set  himself  to  write 
about  he  constantly  strove  to  personify.  Of  course, 
society  was  at  his  feet.  He  was  the  observed  of  all  ob- 
servers. There  was  an  aroma  of  delightful  wickedness 
about  him  dear  to  many  female  hearts  which  would  shud- 


LORD  BYRON 


89 


der  to  confess  the  feeling.   Byron  had  to  deplore  errors 
enough  in  conduct  which  were  real  and  circumstantial, 
but  he  always  loved  to  exaggerate  his  own  wickedness. 
He  called  on  earth  and  heaven  to  witness  that  it  was  not 
his  fault  that  he  was  wicked.    He  had  never  met  the 
heart  that  really  loved  him,  or  if  he  had,  Uke  the  young 
gazelle  "  it  pined  and  died."   AU  things  were  against 
him,  the  fates  pursued  him  with  relentless  fury.    Such  an 
attitude  in  the  ordinary  man  would  simply  expose  him  to 
ridicule;  but  we  must  remember  that  Byron  was  not  an 
ordinary  man.    When  this  theatrical  wickedness,  this 
melodramatic  despair,  this  passionate  sadness,  is  inter- 
preted by  a  man  of  marvellous  physical  beauty,  in 
language  of  matchless  force  and  energy,  it  is  not  difficult 
to  understand  the  success  that  would  attend  the  repre- 
sentation, or  the  ap{dause  that  woukl  greet  the  consum- 
mate actor. 

It  is  because  Byron  has  projected  so  deep  a  shadow  of 
himself  over  all  his  literary  work,  that  we  are  bound  to 
take  the  fullest  cognizance  of  the  conditions  and  char- 
acter of  his  Ufe.  What  is  the  effect  produced  upon  the 
mind  by  his  works?  It  is  an  intense  but  unwholesome 
brilliance.  They  leave  an  evil  taste  upon  the  palate. 
The  taint  of  a  morbid  despair  is  on  all  he  has  written, 
and  on  much  that  he  has  written  there  is  the  worse  taint 
of  moral  depravity.  No  satirist  has  surpassed  him  in  the 
keenness  of  his  irony,  no  controversialist  in  the  violence 
of  his  invective,  no  humorist  in  the  grotesqueness  of  his 
imagination,  no  writer  of  any  age  in  the  masculine  good 
sense  which  he  can  manifest  when  it  so  pleases  him ;  and 
yet  in  all,  and  through  all,  there  runs  an  element  of  de* 
praved  egotism,  a  contempt  for  virtue  curiously  allied 
with  a  remorseful  loathing  of  vice,  a  perpetual  hittirnfss 


40    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBT 


and  cynicism  which  leave  upon  the  mind  the  unhapfriett 

and  most  perilous  deposits.   In  truth,  Byron's  was  s 
great  but  morbid  genius.   His  character  was  destitute  of 
moral  cohesion.  He  was  the  child  of  in^nilse,  never  un- 
conscious of  higher  ideals,  but  habitually  swayed  and 
governed  by  the  lower,  or  the  lowest.    His  poetry  was 
the  exact  reflex  of  his  life.   He  was  perpetually  sinning, 
and  blaming  other  people  for  his  sin.   He  lived  in  a  hard- 
drinking,  fast-living  age,  and  he  drank  harder  and  lived 
faster  than  anybody.    He  never  seems  to  have  known  a 
good  woman.   His  views  of  womanhood  are  simply 
Imrial  in  their  callous  carnality.   The  purity  and  chivalry 
of  woman's  nature  had  no  existence  for  him.  It  a  the 
pure  in  heart  who  see  not  only  God  but  the  Godlike,  and 
it  is  the  genius  that  is  pure-hearted  which  scales  the 
krftiest  heif^  of  achievement;  but  to  Bjn-on  such 
be^ts  were  impossible.   The  distractions  of  vice  dis- 
turbed and  poisoned  his  genius.   The  only  form  of 
womanly  purity  he  ever  met  was  unsympathetic  purity. 
It  is  medless  to  enter  here  into  the  vexed  controversy  of 
Byron's  relations  to  his  wife,  but  it  is  pretty  clear  that 
Miss  Millbank  was  the  last  woman  Byron  ought  to  have 
married.   She  was  precise,  formal,  and  cold ;  he  was  pas- 
si<Miate  and  impulsive.   A  man  witii  a  record  like  Byron's, 
if  he  is  to  be  reclaimed,  can  only  be  redaimed  by  die 
most  patient  sympathy,  the  most  prudent  and  delicate 
tact.   But  of  this  faculty  Lady  Byron  unhappily  had  lit- 
tie.   Fletdier,  Byron's  valet,  said  that  any  woman  could 
manage  his  master  except  her  ladyship.    That  she  irri- 
tated Byron  by  her  coldness  is  beyond  dispute;  and  that 
he  behaved  badly  to  her  is  equally  clear.   But  beyond 
that  tiiere  is  no  evidence.  The  foul  and  o**  jus  myth 
wcAnd  firoa  she  Uv^  ima^naticm  <tf  Mn.  fieedicr 


LORD  BTRON  41 

Stowe  has  been  repeatedly  disproved,  and  may  be  con- 
I  gned  to  the  shameful  obUvion  which  is  its  due.  Byron 
was  a  bad  man  in  his  relations  to  women,  beyond  aU 

question,  but  he  was  not  so  bad  a  man  as  Mrs.  Stowe 
imagined  him.  The  chief  thing  for  us  to  note,  in  our  at- 
tempt to  estinaate  the  significance  of  Byron  in  poetry,  is 
that  his  life  coloured  his  pc«tr>'  absolutely,  and  that  that 
life  was  one  long  series  of  misadventures,  follies,  and 
errors,  for  the  most  part  conditioned  by  the  lower  instincts 
of  his  nature,  and  embittered  by  the  usual  results  of  un- 
bridled passions  and  undisciplined  desires.  Byron  sowed 
the  wind ;  in  his  poetry  the  world  has  reaped  the  whiri- 
wind. 

So  much  in  rdation  to  the  moral  aspects  of  Byron's 
worth  every  just  critic  is  bound  to  admit  The  plea  that 
genius  is  a  chartered  libertine  was  one  which  Byron  per- 
petually paraded,  but  it  is  a  plea  which  the  common  sanity 
of  the  race  instinctively  rejects.    We  must  repeat  of 
Byron  as  of  Burns,  that  genius  has  no  more  inherent 
right  than  duUness  to  break  the  moral  law.    It  is,  indeed 
tiie  more  bound  to  respect  it,  because,  as  genius  is  the 
highest  effluence  of  the  inteUect,so  its  example  should  be 
the  highest  manifestation  of  the  soul    Every  man  of 
genius  ought  to  say  with  Milton.  •<  I  am  not  one  who  has 
disgraced  beauty  of  sentiment  by  deformity  of  conduct 
or  the  maxims  of  the  free  man  by  the  actions  of  tiie 
slave ;  but  by  tiie  grace  of  God  I  have  kept  my  Ufe  un- 
sullied."   But,  leaving  the  question  of  Byron's  life,  what 
are  the  distinctive  features  of  his  poetry?   They  are 
superb  force  and  imaginative  daring,  a  masculine  strength 
of  style,  an  intensity  of  conception  and  vigour  of  executioa 
which  few  English  poets  have  ever  rivalled.    He  has  lit- 
tie  play  of  fancy;  it  is  in  imagination  he  excels.  His 


42    THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENOUBH  POETRY 


vene  hM  a  ku^e  and  noble  movement,  and  inspirei  the 

mind  with  an  exhilarating  sense  of  freedom.  He  was  not 
a  thinker,  but  he  insensibly  perceived  and  absorbed  the 
new  thought  of  his  day,  and  gave  it  courageous  expres- 
sion. He  did  much  to  accdeiatethe  decay  of  old  h»ti* 
tutions  and  the  birth  of  new.  He  swept  like  a  stwm 
across  the  mind  of  Europe,  and  uttered  in  the  language 
of  the  storm  the  new  thoughts  which  were  then  trying  to 
liberate  and  express  themselves.  To  say  that  Byron  is  a 
great  poet  is  not  enough ;  he  is  among  the  greatest.  It 
is  the  fashion  now  to  depreciate  his  claims,  and  Matthew 
Arnold  and  Swinburne  have  both  demonstrated  the 
looseness  of  his  rhymes,  and  hn  ignorance  of  metrical 
construction.  To  do  this  is  easy,  Byron  aimed  at  force 
rather  than  art,  and  art  was  less  fastidious  in  his  days  than 
ours.  He  wrote  carelessly  because  he  cared  little  for  the 
criticism  of  his  \  and  was  at  war  witii  it  But  (or  a 
naan  ignorant  c.  ^.tetrical  construction  he  has  done  ex- 
ceedingly well.  He  won  the  praise  of  Goethe,  and  the 
foremost  place  of  influence  in  his  time.  He  alone  of  the 
writers  of  his  time  shared  with  Scott  a  European  reputa- 
tion, and  his  reputatio  i  entirely  eclipsed  Scott's.  Hitherto 
English  poetry  ha';  >een  insulated ;  he  lifted  it  into  a 
cosmopolitan  currency.  In  the  large  and  startling  effects 
of  imagination  few  can  surpass  him.  What  picture  of  a 
Swiss  glacier,  in  the  early  morn  when  the  mists  are  roll- 
ing off,  can  excel  in  truth  of  description  and  daring  of 
imagination  such  lines  as  these?  

The  mifts  boil  up  around  the  glaciers ;  clouds 
Rise  corHng  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  hell. 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore. 
Heaped  with  the  damned,  like  peUlss  I 


LORD  BYRON  48 

It  is  in  passages  Uke  these  that  the  strength  of  Byron 
is  seen :  it  a  in  virtue  of  poetic  power  like  this  that  Byron 
has  taken  his  place  among  the  grei^  poets  of  all  time. 

The  last  chapters  of  Byron's  life  are  familiar  to  every- 
body.   His  life  in  Italy  was  one  profound  disgrace. 
Shelley  said  the  best  thing  to  hope  for  Byron  at  that 
time  was  that  he  might  meet  with  a  violent  and  sudden 
death.    But  it  was  at  this  period  of  moral  decadence  that 
some  of  his  most  extraordinary  work  was  done.    It  was 
in  Italy  he  wrote  Doh  Juan,  one  of  the  cleverest  books 
the  world  has  ever  seen ;  one  <^  tiie  saddest  and  most 
wonderful,  but  also  one  of  the  most  immoral.  Then 
came  the  sudden  kindling  of  patriotic  fervour  for  the 
cause  of  Greek  independence.    It  seemed  as  if  Byron, 
after  all,  would  triumph  over  his  tower  sdf,  and  at  mid- 
manhood  begin  a  new  and  noble  career  of  public  service. 
But  it  was  not  to  be.    On  the  14th  of  April,  1824,  the 
fatal  fever  sfanck  him  at  Missolonghi.   On  the  19th.  with 
his  last  thoughts  on  his  wife,  his  sister,  and  his  chiM, 
he  died.   Like  a  sudden  shock  of  sorrow  tiie  news  ran 
round  the  world,  "  Byron  is  dead ! "    Tennyson,  speak- 
ing many  years  aftttwards,  said, "  Byron  was  dead.  I 
thought  the  whole  world  was  at  an  end.   I  thought 
everything  was  over  and  finished  for  every  one— that 
nothing  elsb  mattered."    '« I  was  told  it,"  writes  Mrs. 
Carfyle,«'in  a  room  full  of  people.   Had  I  heard  that 
the  sun  and  moon  had  fallen  out  of  their  spheras,  it  could 
not  have  cdnveyed  to  me  the  feeling  of  a  more  awful 
blank  than  did  the  simple  words, '  Byron  is  dead.' "  Mrs. 
aielley,  who  had  known  him  on  his  worst  side,  and  had 
little  cause  to  love'him,  wrote  in  tiutf  hour  of  km  and 
consternation, "  Beauty  sat  on  his  countenance,  and  power 
beamed  from  his  eye.   I  knew  him  in  the  bright  days  of 


U    THE  UAKSBB  OF  KSGUBH  FOKTBT 


yo^'JCui^  I  forget  our  ntemhm  oa  the  lake,  when 

he  ung  the'Tyrolese  hymn,  and  his  voice  harmonized 
with  winds  and  waves  ?  Can  I  forget  his  attentions  and 
coMdatioM  to  me  during  my  deepest  misery  ?  Never  I " 
Even  Lady  Byron  sent  for  Fletcher,  and  was  ovticone 
with  passionate  grief;  but,  as  he  observed,  was  "per- 
fectly implacable."  That  indeed  was  the  general  attitude 
of  public  opinion  towards  him :  remorseful,  but  implaca- 
ble. Greece  would  have  buried  his  remains  hi  the  tem- 
ple of  Theseus;  England  refused  them  Westminster 
Abbey.  The  Grecian  cities  contenc'ed  for  his  body,  but 
the  country  of  his  birth  turned  from  him  with  cold  dis- 
favour. It  was  therefore  in  tiie  quiet  diurdiyard  at 
Hucknall,  on  the  i6th  of  July,  1834,  tiiat  his  imquiet 
dust  at  last  found  rest. 

In  Mrs.  Browning's  VisioM  of  Potts,  in  which  the  poeti 
of  ancient  or  modern  lame  are  described  with  a  brief  pre- 
cision and  beauty  of  phrase  altogether  admirable,  there  is 
no  verse  more  appropriate  than  that  wh  Ji  desoOws 
^ron: 

And  poor  proud  Byron  I  ud  as  nave. 
And  nk  as  Ufe :  forlornly  brnv^ 
And  qtiiv«ri«g  with  At  Aot  he  ftavc. 

The  pity  which  the  poet-heart  of  Mre.  Browning  felt 
for  Byron  wiU  always  be  the  predominant  feeling  of  the 
world  towards  him.  Much  there  was  in  him  altogether 
contemptible— his  vanity,  his  inrincere  vapourings,  his 
coarseness,  his  selfishness,  his  devotion  to  what  he  describes 
as  tiiat  most  old-fashioned  and  gentiemanly  vice— avarice ; 
but  when  all  is  said  and  done,  Byron  attracts  in  no  com- 
mon degree  tiie  sympathy  of  tht  worid.  Before  we 
measure  out  hard  judement  upon  him,  let  us  consider 
the  environment  of  \\  ;  jfe,  and  remember  that  with  what 
measure  we  mete  it  shaU  be  measured  to  us  again. 


IS  a 


SHELLEY 

Birntt  FiiU  PUct,Siusix,Jiiiiut  4,1^^3. 
iuhtd  j8io.    TkiNumltjfir  Athtism,publishidt8ii.  Qntn 
Msi.pmt&Miijj.   Jkut$r,pMiluludi8j6.  MimUrdBym 

Geneva., 8i6.  Th,  RtvtU  hkm,fiiik,ki4  itij,  ItuM 
and  HiUn,  MMd  tht  Cinci,  jgip.  PromttAru  Vnhnnd.  1820. 
Efipsytkidun  and  Ad,n*u  1821.    Thi  TrUmpk  Ufi 

THE  name  of  SheUey  is  irresiitib^  wiggestei 
the  imne  of  Byron,  and  the  connection 
vital  one.   They  were  contempoiwiet,  and  Aak 

livM  interlaced  in  many  ways,  and  profoundly  affected 
each  other.  The  influence  of  Byron  upon  SheUey  was 
comparativelyslight;  theiniuenceofShdley  upon  Byron 
was  high  and  stimulating.  In  life,  in  habte,  in  modie  of 
thought,  no  two  men  could  be  more  diverse,  and  yet  both 
shared  a  common  obloquy  and  exile.  Both  were  at  war 
wi  A  society,  and  ewfa  Im  left  an  hnperlilnble  inheritance 
m  English  literature. 

The  main  point  that  unites  spirits  so  different  as 
JjfteUeys  and  Byron's  is  that  they  were  both  poets  of 
the  Revolution.  Southey,  Colertdge.  and  Wordsworth 
were  equaUy  fascinated  by  that  immense  awakwittg  of 
Europe  and  in  the  early  days  of  its  Titantic  movement 
could  Ua.  that  at  such  an  hour  "it  was  bliss  to  be 
alive.  •  But  as  the  h«d  Ught  of  the  days  of  the  Terror 
ten  upon  the  scene,  each  receded  in  astonishment  and 
horror.   Coleridge  watched  the  tnuntenatioo  in  \ 

a 


46    THE  ICAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


dismay;  Soutfaejr  todc  rdt^  in  violent  Toryism- 
Wordsworth  retreated  to  the  cloistered  calm  of  Nature! 
Byron  and  Shelley  alone  remained,  and  still  cham- 
pioned the  cause  of  human  liberty.   But  Byron's  was 
the  cry  of  despair;  ^lelley's  tiie  trumpet-voice  of  per- 
petual hope.   The  one  gazed  like  a  dark  spirit  on 
general  overthrow,  and  uttered  mocking,  bitter,  angty 
words,  and  felt  the  wild  storm  of  the  nations  akin  to 
the  storm  witiiin  his  own  heart,  and  the  ruin  of  his 
own  life ;  the  other  rose  above  the  red  scenes  of  tw 
olution,  and  built  up  in  the  realms  of  fantasy  a  new 
and  golden  age.   It  is  this  idea  that  colours  Shell/g 
poetry  throughout   He  reaUy  beUeved  in  an  age  of  un- 
restrained personal  liberty  and  consequent  happiness. 
He  believed  that  he  was  helping  it  on.    The  fine  thrill 
of  a  rapt  enthusiasm  is  felt  in  all  he  said  and  wrote. 
He  denounces  the  oM  with  tiie  fervour  <rf  a  prophet,  and 
heralds  the  new  with  the  passionate  joy  of  a  poet. 
Queen  Mad  marks  the  rise  of  this  conception  of  a  golden 
age  in  the  miod  of  Shelley ;  the  Revolt  of  Islam  ex- 
presses the  saarifidal  side  of  tiie  revolution  he  desires ; 
the  Prometheus  Undound  paints  the  apotheosis  %A  his 
thought,  and  is  his  completed  picture  of  a  regenerated 
universe,  the  magnificent  song  which  ushers  in  a  liberated 
world.   Shdley  sets  the  French  Revtdution  to  music ; 
but  he  does  his  work  with  such  an  ethereal  magic,  that 
its  earthly  and  faulty  aspects  are  forgotten,  and  it  is  lifted 
into  a  realm  of  pure  enchantment,  where  all  its  errors 
are  obliterated,  and  all  Hs  boundless  hopes  are  crowned 
with  a  more  than  human  fulfillment 

It  is  necessary  always  to  recollect  how  controlling 
was  the  force  of  these  ideas  upon  the  life  of  Shelley, 
if  we  are  to  gain  a  dtw  to  the  strange  vicissitudes  (tf 


[iLEY 


47 


his  career.   The  drcumstances  of  his  life  and  the 
peculiarities  of  his  thought  have  been  so  variously 
represented  by  his  biographers,  that  it  is  quite  poMible 
to  rise  from  the  perusal  of  one  life  of  Shelley  with  the 
impression  that  he  was  a  gifted  madman  of  impure  mind 
and  to  dose  another  biography  with  the  feeling  that  of 
all  poets  he  was  the  most  spiritual,  the  most  unselfish, 
the  most  ideally  pure-minded.   In  point  of  fact,  there' 
is  evidence  to  sustain  both  conclusions,  that  is,  to  the 
critic  who  has  a  cause  to  plead,  and  enters  on  the  study 
of  Shelley  in  the  spirit  of  a  special  advocate.  Theie 
were  certain  ideas  which   Shelley  held  which  ahnost 
savoured  of  a  disturbed  sanity.   The  very  recurrence 
and  msistence  of  such  ideas  leads  the  leader  to  suspect 
a  mental  flaw.   To  the  staid  and  respectable  people  of 
his  day.  who  only  knew  him  by  his  advocacy  of  these 
Ideas,  It  is  not  surprising  that  he  was— to  quote  his  own 
phrase--«a  monster  of  poUution  whose  very  presence 
might  infect."   When  a  serious  and  firtal  error  in  his  own 
conduct  added  impetus  to  the  resentment  which  his  sen- 
timente  had  produced,  it  is  easy  to  understand  the  posi- 
tion Shd^ey  occupied  in  the  opinion  of  his  contempo- 
raries.   Yet.  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  about  Shelley 
an  atmosphere  of  unworldliness  and  purity,  which  struck 
afl  who  knew  him  with  surprise  and  admiration.  It 
was  a  sort  of  unearthly  charm  which  invested  him 
with  the  purity  and  irresponsibiUty  of  a  fairy  or  a 
spirit.   There  was  a  boyish  impulsiveness,  a  childlike 
simplicity  and  unselfishness  about  him  which  he  never 
ost   He  was  in  truth  an  eternal  dUU.   He  was  unfitted 
for  the  rough  shodrf  of  Hfe,  and  never  grew  &mill« 
with,  or  tolerant  of.  the  compromises  on  which  sodety 
IS  built   When  he  believed  in  an  idea  he  was  alwa^ 


48    THE  MAin»!R8  OF  ENGLISH  FOEKBY 


ready  to  cany  it  to  its  utmost  Ic^cal  seqtwnoe,  and  to 
suffer  martynkMn  rather  than  forswear  it 

Of  the  generosity  of  Shelley's  impulses  there  can  be 
no  question.  When  Harriet  Westbrook,  the  daughter 
of  a  London  coilee-house  keeper,  threw  herself  on 
him  for  protection  from  the  persecutions  of  home,  he 
instantly  married  her.  When  he  discovered  the  reck- 
lessness and  injustice  of  British  government  in  Ireland, 
he  at  once  proceeded  to  Dublin  to  proclaim  a  revolution, 
which  should  be  accomplished  by  the  moral  regenera- 
tion of  the  people.  When  he  found  a  Sussex  school- 
mistress who  sympathized  with  his  vast  schemes  for 
tiie  r^feneration  of  Ireland  and  the  world,  he  instantly 
persuaded  her  to  sell  all  she  had,  and  Uve  with  htm 
forever  in  platonic  friendship.  He  was  incapable  of 
prudence;  the  tide  of  impulse  alwa)^  mastered  him. 
He  never  paused  for  the  mitigating  caution  of  the 
second  thought.  If  he  did  an  act  of  charity—and  he 
did  many — he  performed  it  with  complete  self-forget- 
fulness.  He  could  pinch  himself  to  be  munificent  to 
odiers,  and  what  most  in  want  of  money  always  found 
ways  of  relieving  the  embarrassments  of  htt  friends. 
His  wants  were  few  and  of  the  simplest.  He  was 
perfectly  content  with  a  couple  of  rooms,  cold  water,  and 
a  diet  of  bread  and  v^etables.  Delicate  aitd  frail  as  he 
appeared,  he  could  endure  the  strain  of  prolonged  Intd- 
lectual  toil,  and  was  absolutely  ha^py  if  Homer  or 
Euripides  shared  his  shabby  solitude. 

It  was  in  sudi  a  lodging  in  Oxford  Street  that  Leigh 
Hunt  discovered  him,  and  said  that,  with  his  slight  figure, 
his  bright  colour,  his  flying  hair,  he  only  wanted  a 
green  sod  beneath  his  feet  to  become  a  sort  of  human 
laric,  pouring  out  in  the  sunli^t  a  song  of  unearthly 


SHELLEY 


49 


thing  of  this  feduig  which  Hunt  expressed  in  his 
graceful  fancy.  They  felt  tht  Shdiqr  4  aTeAerS 
creature,  whose  hfe  was  so  purely  one  of  the  ima^ 
ton  that  he  seemed  outside  the  world  of  co3o^ 
hun«n  action,  with  its  custonis  built  upon  theT^? 
tions  of  the  centuries,  and  a.  prudence  taught  brthe 
sorrows  of  experience.  8  *  mc 

^? T  °^  ^Wch  was  given  to 

fte  world  on  August  4th,  ,79*,  whra  the  6n.t 
of  the  great  Revolution  were  alre«Iy  in  the  air  w! 
can  easily  picture  Shelley,  the  frail  and  visionanr  child. 

moved  by  the  strangest  impulses,  and  acting  on  them 
with  an  utter  scorn  of  comequence.  Hi.  iLrinS 
was  h.s  hfe,  and  it  took  very  little  to  set  thoJd^^ 
strungnerv^  of  his  vibrating  and  tingling  wiuT^ 
orterror.  As  was  the  chUd  so  was  the  man.  The  fi,i 
movement  of  his  mind  wa.  tow«d.  the  supematu^T  aS 
h.s  first  published  writing  a  worthless  ronC^^^I^ 
ti^  supernatural  and  the  terrible  were  the  chief  eleme^ 

f  lu     '  ^  revolutionary  ferment 

of  the  times,  and  dropped  its  fiery  leaven  int^S 

^"w^  Sf^^-  Eton  the  wiTS 

oreamy  lad  was  known  as  «« mad  Shellev "   Th^»  m 

Sef  t''^  Oxf  J.'^  whiS^re  li- 
that m  his  expulsion  from  the  University  unnecessan, 
harshness  was  disolavML  Tfc*  r^^^^  unnecessary 
f.v.„  r  J  «»|M«yea  rfce  pami^ilet  wm  a  dedara- 
t.on  of  .deas-not  of  convictions.  andJm  VT^ 
of  logical  propositions, in  which  SheUcy. 


10    THE  MAKEBB  OF  ESGUm  FOETBY 


fiftt  minds  of  the  Unhrenity  to  dispute  after  the  fashion 
ot  the  mediaeval  schoolmen.  It  was  one  of  Aosc  im- 
pncticable  notions  with  which  the  mind  of  Shelley  was 
always  teeming.  The  learned  dons  of  an  ancient  Uni- 
versity did  nothing,  ctf  course,  to  convert  the  sinner  from 
tile  error  of  his  ways:  their  method  of  conversion  was 
expulsion.  Such  a  course  might  have  been  readily  an- 
ticipated. But  such  a  result  had  never  occurred  to  the 
unsophisticated  calculations  of  Shelley.  The  issue  of  his 
expulsion  was  that  Sielley's  mind,  already  alienated  from 
Christianity,  was  now  embittered  against  it,  and  that  at 
seventeen  he  was  master  of  his  own  career. 

Byron  spoke  of  being  -  lord  of  himself,  that  heritage 
of  woe";  certainly  no  man  was  ever  kss  fitted  by  nat> 
ural  endowment,  or  acquired  experience,  to  administer 
the  difficult  heritage  of  himself  than  Shelley.  He  was 
flung  upon  the  worid  witii  a  heart  hot  wiA  anger,  a  mind 
fermenting  with  revolution,  and  a  character  destitute  of 
the  discipline  of  self-control,  and  regulated  by  no  knowl- 
edge of  Ufe  or  aflairs.  The  wonder  is  not  that  he  erred, 
but  that  he  did  not  err  more  widely.  As  it  was,  from 
that  hour  he  became  the  poet  of  revolution.  He  prac- 
ticed what  he  preached.  He  had  none  of  the  cold  selfish- 
ness which  was  the  underlying  stratum  of  Byron's  char- 
acter. His  view  of  tiie  brotherhood  of  man  literally  led 
him  to  share  all  he  had  with  the  poorest,  and  to  meet  the 
most  remote  from  him  in  the  social  scale  upon  a  level 
of  frank  equality.  All  the  fervour  of  an  exceptionally 
ardent  nature  was  given  to  the  work  of  spreading  his 
ideas,  and  as  these  ideas  passed  through  the  akmUc  <tf 
an  extraordinary  imagination,  they  were  transformed  into 
the  noblest  poetry. 

There  is  notiiing  man  remarkable  in  Engikh  literature 


SHBLLEY  n 

than  the  rapid  advancement  of  SheUey^  iiitelW»  a.. 

highest  victories  of  poetrv    Hi,  fiZ^  »« 

like  hi.  Bm  ronl^ 

herent.and  it  ^^-.^1,^^^^^^ 

ever  included  in  hrw^lT  ST^hr^V',"" 

poem,  is  equaUy  incoherent,  but  n;ginni^  H 

of  his  marvellout  masterv  of  ^  m  it 

y-M-.  Shelly  w^rnrr  b^.°:srhi.^^ 

l»gb«         of  ni«>imr  in  such  foJl 

tts  grave  and  terrible  drama  of  ^  £>Jf-li?^' 

p«mina..„„ive™.  Tho/Cx^  ?Sw^'^'" 
K  IS  m  Itself  a  world  of  beautv  anA  u-  /"**™"P* 
of  word-odnh-n.*  .-^  i.  r^"*^'       *e  highest  power 


6S    THE  1CAKER8  OF  ENGLISH  FOETET 


called  the  •<  Turner  of  Poetry,"  and  the  phrase  is  tis  just 
as  it  is  benittfuL  Shdley's  power,  like  Turner's,  was  in 

depicting  the  pomp  and  splendour  of  evening  skies,  the 
weird  and  changeful  glory  of  atmospheric  effects,  the 
terror  of  tempest,  those  rare  and  more  awful  manifesta- 
tkMn  of  nature,  whta  she  puts  on  a  supernatural  grandeur, 
and  seems  indeed  to  be  alive,  a  spirit  of  strength  and 
beauty*,  whose  rainbows  blind  us,  whose  ethereal  love- 
liness awes  and  masters  us,  whose  half-dreadful  charms 
at  once  inspire  and  subdue  us.  Majesty  is  tiie  k^-note 
of  Shelley's  highest  poetry. 

Just  as  Wordsworth  treated  nature  as  something  alive 
and  breathing,  so  did  Shelley,  but  his  conception  of  na- 
ture difiisred  from  Wordsworth's.  The  diffoence  is  ex- 
quisitely touched  by  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke  when  he  says : 
"While  Wordsworth  made  the  active  principle  which 
filled  and  made  nature  to  be  Thought,  Shelley  made  it 
Love."  There  is  a  passion  and  sensuous  warmth  (tf  im- 
agination in  Shelley's  view  of  nature  which  is  wanting  in 
Wordsworth's,  and  there  is  a  certain  indefinable  exulta- 
tion which  no  other  poet  possesses.  He  speaks  of  nature 
in  tibe  tone  of  a  victmious  lover.  He  does  more  tlmn 
this ;  there  is  not  only  exultation  but  exaltation  in  the 
poetry  of  Shelley.  He  seems  transformed  by  the  stress 
and  intensity  of  his  passion  into  a  spiritual  form,  a  being 
of  fire  and  air,  an  Ariel «  of  imagination  all  compact."  a 
weird  and  unearthly  creature  who  dwells  among  "the 
viewless  winds,"  and  lives  in  the  hidden  heart  and  secret 
place  of  nature.  This  passionate  adoration  of  nature  is 
nowhere  so  apparent  as  in  his  lyrics.  They  have  t)w  true 
lyrical  fire  and  sweetness.  They  are  the  perfection  of 
music.  And  through  them  all  runs  another  element,  the 
dement  of  a  most  pathetic  sadness.   He  pours  out  in  his 


SHELLEY 


58 


lyncs  the  ciy  of  his  heart,  with  aU  its  intense  yearning.its 
disappotntment,  its  insufficiency.  Of  these  feelings  the 
famous  0^  to  a  SfyM  is  the  bert  exwnple.  and  is  in 
Itself  the  most  perfect  lyrical  production  of  modeni 
poetry.  It  is  sweet,  strong,  and  tender;  perfect  in  senti- 
ment, perfect  in  expression,  perfect  in  workmanship.  It 
«  known  wherever  the  English  language  is  known,  and  if 
every  other  writing  of  SheUey's  were  lost,  would  be  suffi- 
cient to  give  him  a  place  among  the  greatest  lyric  poets  who 
have  used  the  English  language  with  masteiy  and  music. 

Matthew  Arnold  has  hazarded  the  strange  verdict  that 
Shelley  wiU  live  by  his  prose  rather  than  his  poeoy.  but 
the  saymg  does  more  to  illustrate  the  eccentricity  of  the 
mtic  than  to  define  the  posiUon  of  the  poet   In  poetiy 
Shelley  «  described  as  "an  inefleetuti  angel,  beating  in 
«ic  void  his  luminous  wings  in  vain."  but  in  prose  Mr. 
Arnold  dwcribes  him  as  a  master.   The  fact  remains, 
however,  that  his  prose  has  rare  quaUties  of  force  and 
eloquence.   It  reflects  in  a  singular  degiee  the  precision 
and  purity  of  the  great  classic  writers  of  antiquity  The 
real  value  of  the  a.c3imilation  of  the  great  classics  is 
the  mastery  of  language  which  they  confer.   A  ripe 
classical  knowledge  ensures  purity  and  justness  of  lan^ 
guage;  It  teaches  its  students  to  value  and  discern  the 
delicate  shades  of  meaning  in  which  language  abounds : 
It  confers  that  accent  of  distinction  upon  the  style 

r!  M  r'*"'/^'"'''  ^  manifestations,  is. 

as  Matthew  Arnold  has  told  us.  the  great  secret  of  im- 
mortal^  ,n  hteiature.  Preeminentiy  is  this  result  to  be 
otaeryed  m  Shelley.  The  English  of  his  early  romances 
is  fustian-commonplaifce.iaeohefent.tufbid;  the  results 
of  his  lifelong  study  of  the  ancient  classics  are  seen  in  tiiat 
splendour  and  purity  of  diction  which  distiaguish  his 


54    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENQUBH  FOEIEY 


poetry,  and  have  made  his  writings  part  of  the  English 
classics.  Shelley  was  one  of  the  finest  of  classical  schol- 
ars, in  the  sense  not  merely  that  he  found  the  daily  bread 
of  hk  intdleet  in  Phto,  Homer,  and  Luerathv,  but  that  he 
has  in  some  respects  more  perfectly  assimilated  and  re- 
produced the  Greek  spirit  than  any  other  English  poet 
The  great  poets  of  antiquity,  especially  Lucretius,  whose 
breadth  of  view  and  majesty  of  style  fasdnated  Stelley  as 
an  undergraduate,  were  his  daily  companions,  and  in  1^ 
coat  pocket,  when  dead,  was  found  a  wdl-wom  coow  of 
Sophocles. 

Tlie  remoteness  of  theme  which  diancterizes  SheUc/s 

poetry  is  both  a  gain  and  a  disadvantage.   Often  the 
thread  of  human  interest  is  attenuated  to  the  last  degree. 
Mrs.  ShellQr,  than  whom  no  poet  ever  had  a  nobler  intel- 
lectual helpmeet,  fidt  this,  and  when  he  wrote  the  IVitcM 
of  Atlas  expressed  her  disqqwintment  that  he  had  not 
chosen  a  theme  of  more  general  human  interest.    But,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  is  this  remoteness  of  theme  which  does 
much  to  invest  Shelley's  poetiy  with  so  unique  a  charm. 
One  of  his  biographers'  has  wdl  said  that  in  naming 
Shelley  most  readers  feel  they  name  a  part  of  everything 
beautiful,  ethereal,  and  spiritual— that  his  words  are  so 
InortricrfJy  interwoven  witii  certain  phases  of  love  and 
beauty  as  to  be  indistinguishable  from  the  thing  itself. 
We  may  say  so  much  to-day,  but  the  practical  effect  of 
Shelley's  insubstantiality  of  theme  in  his  own  day  was 
that  he  had  few  readers,  and  to  write  without  a  pubUc  for 
many  years  is  always  a  serious  disadvantage  to  a  poet 
It  represses  ambition,  it  discourages  effort.    Much  of 
Shdley's  depression  of  spirits  arose  from  this  sense  that 
he  wrote  in  vain.  «  Bfine  is  a  life  of  Mures,"  he  said. 


'  PeMXH*  «yt  aqr  i»ehy  h  eompoMd  of  day-dwaim  and 


the 


nightmares, 

Exammr.    I  wroterand  the  criUcs  denoun^      «  « 
misducvous  visionary,  and  my  friends  said  that  I  had 
mistakea  my  vocttkm."  At  the  time  of  his  death  there 
was  practically  no  sale  for  his  works,  and  hk  fatlwr  only 
acted  in  accordance  with  the  general  sentiment  about 
them  when  he  made  the  suppression  of  his  posthumous 
poemi  the  condition  of  a  niggardly  aUowance  to  his 
widow.   The  very  expenses  of  the  publication  of  hii  po*. 
thumous  poems  had  to  be  guaranteed  by  the  generosity 
of  private  friends.   Is  it  wonderi"ul  that  SheUey  cared  Ut- 
tle  to  please  a  pubUc  who  at  the  best  studiously  ignored 
him  or  reviewera  who  received  eveiytfaing  he  wrote  with 
vinilent  scorn,  and  were  capable  of  writing  after  his  death, 
"  He  viiU  now  find  out  whether  there  is  a  hcU  or  not "  ? 

That  the  poetry  of  Shelley  should  reflect  the  sadness 
of  his  life  is  natural,  but  it  is  noticeable  that,  as  he  grew 
older,  his  mind  became  more  serene  and  hopeful,  just  m 

IT^^  °^  away  with  years, 

and  left  him  writing  an  admiring  essay  on  the  Christ  he 
had  hated  as  a  youth.   But  it  is  almost  abmml  to  speak 
of  SheUey  as  growing  old,  for  he  died  at  thirty.   In  one 
sense  he  had  lived  long,  for  he  had  Uved  much,  and  in- 
tensity of  life  adds  age  to  life  not  less  than  length  of 
days    He  himself  felt  this,  for  only  the  day  before  his 
death  when  he  left  the  house  of  Le'gh  Hunt  at  Pisa,  he 
said  tlwt,  If  he  died  to-morrow,  he  would  be  older  than 
his  father-he  would  be  ninety.   What  he  might  have 
done  had  long  life  been  his  it  is  possftle  onfy  to  con- 
jecture.   It  is  certain,  that,  every  year  he  wrote,  he  dis- 
played more  mastery  over  his  own  powere.  and  produced 
more  narvcBoos  in  themselves,  and  more  worthy 


06    THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGUBH  FOKIBr 

of  fame,  than  the  work  that  w«nt  before  then.  But 
long  Ufe  was  not  granted  him ;  he  died  with  the  song  on 
hiilipi,  at  the  very  moment  of  its  utmost  power  and 
nmtaat.    On  July  8th,  iSaa,  he  left  Leghorn  for 
Lerici,  on  a  aalUng-boat  which  he  had  bou^  from 
Byron,  in  company  with  Captain  Willlaiu.   No  sooner 
had  they  gained  the  open  sea  than  a  tremendous  squaU 
•truck  the  boat,  and  a  thick  darkness  shut  her  off  from 
the  anxious  watchen  on  the  shore.   When  the  darkness 
lifted  the  boat  was  gone  forever.   A  few  days  later  the 
body  of  Shelley  was  found,  and  in  his  hand  was  stiU 
grasped  the  volume  of  Keats  which  he  had  been  reading 
when  death  came  upon  him.   His  body  was  burned,  in 
the  presence  of  Byron,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  Trelawney,  oa 
the  shore  near  Pisa.   From  the  flame  the  heart  was 
taken  uninjured,  and  was  afterwards  given  to  Mis.  SheUey. 
The  ashes  were  buried  beside  the  body  of  John  Keats,  at 
Rome,  in  the  English  cemetery,  near  the  pyramid  of  Caius 
Cestius— a  spot  so  beautiful  that  he  himself  said  it  may 
^  make  one  faU  in  love  with  Death.  Thus,  by  the 
Vagedy  of  fate,  within  eighteen  months  the  writer  of 
^donais  was  laid  side  by  side  with  the  great  poet  whom 
'le  had  thus  commemorated  in  the  most  splendid  elegy 
which  the  English  language  possesses.   Adonais  is  less 
the  elegy  of  Keats  than  the  monument  of  SheUey,  and 
It  IS  of  SheUey  rather  than  of  Keati  that  we  think  when 
we  read  the  prophetic  lines  : 

He  has  outioared  the  shadow  of  our  n^ht ; 
Envy  and  cahaaajr.  and  hate  and  {tain. 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  hhn  not  and  torture  not  again ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  hewt  grom  cold,  a  hsad  grown  gray  in  Tshi. 


VI 

JOHN  KEATS 

O^f  "^^^  ^o"-  consideration  in 

Iite.t««  of  thk  ceotmy  is  the  iU-starred 
hfe  and  early  death  of  four  of  itigrortartpoeifc 
Byron  died  by  misadventure,  one  might  ahnost  say.  attt« 
very  «no««twhen  he  had  begun  to  throw  off  the 
poisonous  morfaklity  of  ewlier  y«us.  and  certainly  at  a 
time  when  there  was  no  token  of  failing  powen.  Sheilev 
was  dn>wned  at  a  time  when  his  genius  had  b<«un^ 

amagmficent  promise  of  ripening power.and  when 
earfy  errois  had  not  only  bc«n  amply  atoned  for.  but 
were  repented  and  forsworn.   Bums,  after  •  long  series 
of  mwfortunes,  died  at  an  age  when  the  latter  poets  of 
the  Virtonan  epoch  had  scarcely  put  forth  their  powere. 
John  Keats  completes  the  Hst  of  poets  of  great  genius 
and  commanding  influence,  overwhehned  by  mtsfortuae. 
and  cut  off  in  the  very  prime  of  hope  and  achievement  • 
Md  m  many  respects  Keats' is  the  saddest  history  of 
them  all   Byron.  Bums,  and  Shelley,  at  least,  had  some 
recogmbon  of  their  powers  accorded  them,  and  the  two 
hrst  had  both  ample  and  generoa*      ards  of  fame  in 
tt«r  own  time.   But  Keats  passed  out  of  the  world  be- 

which  had  been  m  it   Even  those  who  wei«  his  most  in- 
timatelhend8.HuntandHaydon,h«dao. 


58  THE  MAKsas  OF  smusm  ranr 

understanding  of  the  hetght  and  teofw  of  iy»  genhn; 
twth  of  them  lectured  hi m  pr  -tty  severely,  a   !  Hunt  even 
^med  to  instruct  him  in  style.   The  rare  lo^  ablcncss  of 
the  man,  his  tMncM  of  temper  ami  timpUcity  of  nature, 
his  straightforward  honesty  and  contagiow  nrthiwiMm 
they  both  admired  and  ackno  ^  lodged  in  no  stinted  temj 
of  praiK,  but  neither  the  painur  nor  the  poet  really  per- 
ceived the  origittdity  and  fr^hneH  of  the  ,  .  mm  they 
admired.   As  for  the  . -^ai  •  world,  it  was    oth  coi 
temptuoua  and  indifferent.    Tl.c  reviews  of  that  day  weie 
ri« of  «  wicked  parUsan^h.p,  a..d  the  criticism  was  venom- 
ous Md  brutal  in  the  extreme.   It  was  quite  enough  for 
the  QuarteHy  to  know  that  Keats  wai  the  frimd  of  to 
promirwnt  a  Radical  as  Le.gh  Hunt;  such  knowfedge 
provocation  for  attacking  him  with  every 
feir  and  imftk  weapon  it  ooald  lay  its  h  :«da  to.  Indeed 
It  was  not  so  much  a  matter  of  weapons  at  of  miwiki' 
K«tewas  not  attacked  in  fair  fight,  but  was  virtually 
mobbed  off  the  ttage.   To  taunt  a  young  poet  witl  his 
lowly  birth  wm  Ml  oAate  against  every  canon  of  genUe- 
manly  feeling,  not  to  speak  of  the  good  tradttioa*  of 
honourabk  criticism  ;  to  tell  him  to  go  back  to  lis  galli'  ots 
and  itick  to  his  piU-boxes  was  an  access  of  brutalitv  of 
wl»«h  even  critict  in  that  bad  age  wew  teUom  guilty. 
Wyron  said  he  would  not  have  written       article  in  the 
Quarterly  for  all  the  world  was  worth ;  yet  .  cn  Byron  at 
an  earht.  period  had  written  to  Murray  that  if  he  did  not 
get  some  one  to  kiD  and  tkia  Jotainy  Keats  he  would  be 
forced  to  do  it  himself. 

The  brief  Ufe  of  Keats  is  soon  sketched.  He  as  the 
■on  of  a  liveiyHjtable  man.  and  was  born  on  the  -'9th  of 
October.  1795.  at  the  sign  of  The  Swan  and  Hoop.  Fias- 
buiy  Pavement,  fiKtag  the  «wi  «p«  mmt  «f  io«« 


JOHN  KEATS 


Moorfidds  His  ...iier  h»d  mamcd  h.s  employer's 
aw^ter,  and  apitears  to  have  been  »  .uan  of  integrity, 
•wi  with  fooM  charm  of  charuMr.        ma  kflled  whoi 

Keats  was  a  child,  and  after  a  t  .nonth  his  widow 
married  again.  Keats  received  his  education  at  a  private 
aeademf  at  Eafidd.  For  the  fint  pan  of  his  time  there 
be  gave  no  promise  of  anytiiia«  beyo^  MUktlc 
in.  ,  <=uddenly  minr  eeir  o  have  ul,  son.  .  into 
life,  and  he  beciunt  an  lent  t  aod  5; 
■er  w«g  tbe  first  poet  who  fasciu.  ed  h. 
who  has  bccQ  called  "  the  poet's  poet,"  w 
fluence  to  the  I^t.  On  savii^  sch'  ' 
prenUced  to  a  doctor,  and  began  to 
But  ke  never  reaUly  ooi'  to  t.  lu 
he  says  he  cou  '  never  ha  «  beer 


It  Spen- 
.iser, 
po  ^  in. 

ap- 

r  icine. 
of  his  later  letters 
^tf^con.  He 


far  too  abstract-  or  th  ^M  ..^  of  surgery,  and 
he  never  could  ..v  c  ta    n     ^  fact  was.  his  mind 

w»Mtl«J«spfofes«o*».an  .  i  .oun  kft  it,  and  began 
towBte  peeay.  There  w«  a  cou  ^dwMetiim  of  money 

due  to  ^    a  hi      other*.  de-  .a«d  on  the  interest  of 
this,  and  latterly        he  pricci 
in  a  in^       &MaeBt  f  -  > 
1  s  sooB  towad  friends 
very  marker'  and 
youth  oi  mgukr 
ttiteiyftao  utirfu 


him 

not  m 

r 


he  cootrived  to  live 

^tes. 

he  love  his  friends  bore 

ig  He  was  by  aU  ae- 
auty.  Mrs.  Proctor  said, 
,  that  his  face  was  like  the 


broMl,  the  h 

once  seen  ■ 


ate 

ve 
r  , 
se! 


ba    looked  vpoa  a  glorious  sight  It 

d       "d  face,  with  large  and  scnsitjvr 
briiii  It  hazel,  the  forehead  low  anu 
H   -irling  softly;  a  face  which 
omlbr    rtca.  la  frame  he  was  slightly 


but  compactly  L  ,lt.  anu  he  general  tetimonyoVhto 
•nends  ib  that  he  always  struck  them  as  one  destined  to 


60     THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


long  life.  He  was  full  of  vitality  and  energy,  of  enthusi- 
asm and  hope,  and  had  sufficient  physical  powers  on  one 
occasion  to  administer  a  severe  tiirashing  to  a  big  butdier- 
lad  who  was  molesting  a  small  boy.  Indeed,  the  com- 
mon idea  of  Keats,  so  far  as  the  first  period  of  his  life 
goes,  IS  about  as  far  from  the  truth  as  it  can  well  be. 
He  was  no  puling,  sickly  youth,  but  energetic,  buoyant 
of  spirit,  creating  in  all  his  friends  the  idea  of  strong 
vitality,  which  was  likely  to  ripen  into  vigorous  old  age. 
Coleridge's  description  of  him,  as  a  slack,  loosdy-dressed 
youth,  with  a  thin  nervous  hand,  of  which  tiie  oMer  poet 
said  when  first  he  grasped  it,  "There^is  death  in  that 
hand,"  was  written  long  afterwards,  when  disease  had 
made  serious  inroads  on  Keats'  strength.  The  true 
picture  of  tile  Keats  who  wrote  Endymion  is  of  a  bright 
and  Imlliant  youth,  impressing  all  beholders  with  an  idea 
of  great  powers,  a  youth  who  was  bound  to  succeed  in 
making  his  mark  broad  and  deep  upon  his  times. 

It  is,  however,  not  tiie  Keats  who  wrote  Etufymi^ 
we  know  most  about,  but  the  Keats  who  was  the  lover 
of  Fanny  Brawne  and  the  butt  for  the  ridicule  of  the 
Quarterly.  It  seems  to  us  that  there  are  two  totally  dis- 
tinct  John  Keats' — the  John  Keats  before  decay  be- 
gan, and  the  John  Keats  tortured  by  the  sense  of  great 
powers  unappreciated  and  soon  to  be  eclipsed  forever. 
The  impressran  which  John  Keats  in  the  days  of  health 
and  hope  fmxluced  upon  his  friends  we  have  ahvady 
described.  The  impression  one  derives  from  the  stu(^ 
of  the  doomed  and  dying  Keats  is  very  different.  It  is 
in  his  love-letters  to  Fanny  Brawne,  which  never  ought 
to  have  been  puUohed,  tiiat  tiie  J<An  Keats  of  tragedy  is 
revealed.  The  letters  are  full  of  violence,  despair,  jeal- 
ousy :  the  ravings  of  a  iorturad  youtii,  pourii^  out 


JQHNKXATB 


out  regard  for  himMlf  att  the  wedaiew  and  intemperate 

passion  of  his  nati're.  There  is  something  pitiable  in  the 
display,  something  that  makes  a  sane  and  self-sufficient 
nature  shrink  back  in  severe  distaste.   They  are,  in  fact, 
the  revelation  of  a  disordered  nature,  a  nature  oi  dimin- 
ished  moral  fibre,  and  in  this  view  the  words  of  his  con- 
temporaries confirm  us.   Haydon,  who  knew  him  perhaps 
better  dian  any  man,  says  emphatically, "  His  ruin  was 
owing  to  his  mMt  of  decision  of  <^aracter  and  power 
of  will,  without  which  genius  is  a  curse."    Nor  does 
Haydon  speak  in  the  spirit  of  a  censorious  critic.  He 
loved  Keats.   He  says  in  another  place,  Keats  had  "  an 
eye  that  had  an  inward  look,  perfectly  divine,  h1ce  a 
Delphian  priestess  who  saw  visions.   Poor  dear  Keats ! 
had  nature  given  you  firmness  as  well  as  fineness  of 
nerve,  you  would  have  been  g  orious  in  your  maturity  as 
great  in  your  promise  I"   It  is  difficult  to  sum  up  the 
impressions  such  words  as  these  create,  but  unquestion- 
ably they  describe  a  nature  in  which  the  artistic  and  in- 
tdlectual  forces  were  not  balanced  by  the  moral  forces. 
There  is  not  the  firmaen  oi  nerve  Haydon  speaks  of. 
There  is  something,  on  the  contrary,  that  strikes  one  as 
sensuois  and  unwholesome.    Keats  says  of  himself,  he 
has  an  "  exquisite  sense  of  the  luxurious,"  and  writes, 
"Oh  for  a  life  of  sensi^mis  nOier  than  tiMu^tst** 
There  is  a  story  of  his  once  having  covered  his  tCH^ue 
with  cayenne  pepper,  that  he  might  appreciate  more  ex- 
quisitely die  sense  of  the  coohiess  of  the  claret  he  was 
about  to  drink.  The  stoiy  is  sl^t,  but  it  •ppem  m- 
thentic,  and  it  coincides  with  the  impression  of  character 
which  Haydon's  criticisms  and  Keats'  own  words  convey. 
How  br  tile  jmssure  of  disease  may  account  for  these 
ft  i>  inpo**^  to  say :  but  k  is  certain 


n    THE  1IAKEB8  OF  ENGUBH  POETBT 


dutt  this  touch  of  die  moibid  ran  through  all  Keats'  later 

period,  and  occasionally  gave  his  poetry  a  smt  of  fabe 
and  hectic  splendour.  It  is  a  dying  poet  who  writes ; 
and  there  is  something  of  the  preternatural  brilliance  of 
diMBM  in  his  poetry. 

Turning  from  the  poet  to  his  poetry,  there  are  am- 
siderations  of  great  interest  which  readily  suggest  them- 
selves.  Keats  is  the  youngest  and  last  of  the  great  band 
ot  poets  who  laid  the  foundations  of  the  poetry  of  the 
century :  but  he  is  not  of  them.   The  Revolution  woke 
no  echoes  in  his  nature.    He  professed,  indeed,  the  most 
advanced  democratic  opinions,  and  reverenced  Voltaire ; 
but  there  is  no  trace  either  of  political  or  religious  bias, 
in  his  poetry.    He  is  destitute  alike  of  love  to  God  and 
enthusiasm  for  humanity,  so  far  as  his  poetry  is  con- 
cenwd.   Byron  was  never  free  from  the  haunting  pres- 
ence of  religious  proUems;  Byron  and  SheUey  wer« 
both  filled  with  the  fervour  of  the  revolutionary  spirit; 
but  in  Keats  there  is  no  trace  of  either.    He  had  no  in- 
terest in  man.    In  the  passion  and  tragic  struggle  of 
ordinaiy  human  life  he  discovered  no  food  for  poetry. 
To  him  poetry  was  a  world  o(  die  imagination  only,  a 
sealed  and  sworded  paradise,  a  realm  of  enchantment 
where  only  those  might  dwell  who  saw  visions  and 
dreamed  dreuns— a  hnd  <rf  vduptuous  languor,  where 
magic  music  filled  the  air  and  life  passed  Uke  a  dream, 
measured  only  by  the  exquisiteness  of  its  sensations  and 
tile  intensity  of  its  delights.   In  order  to  create  such  a 
worid,  he  went  back  to  the  legends  of  andent  Greece 
and  the  stories  of  mediaeval  life.   To  him  the  vision 
of  modern  life  was  tame  and  vulgar;  he  needed  a  realm 
more  remote,  and  consequently  obscured  by  the  haze  of 
dittUK^  in  which  his  imagination  could  work  unhin- 


JOHW  KEATS  es 

dered.  The  world  he  thus  Uved  in  was  a  completely 
ideal  WQiH  jealously  dosed  as  fidr  as  he  could  close  it 
against  the  intrusion  of  ordinary  human  affiuis.  So  satu- 
rated did  his  mind  become  with  the  imaginations  of  the 
past,  that  Leigh  Hunt  said  of  him,  He  never  beheld  the 
oak-tree  without  seeing  the  DiyaA-  The  only  thought 
he  has  ever  elaborated  in  all  his  writings  is  that  beauty 
is  worthy  of  worship,  and  loveliness  should  be  worshipped 
for  its  own  sake.  The  worship  of  loveliness  he  thus  sub- 
stituted for  tiie  worship  of  truth,  and  this  seems  to  have 
satisfied  all  the  religious  instincts  of  his  nature. 

EssentiaUy  this  is  the  artist's  view  of  Ufe.   The  cant  of 
art  now  is  that  art  exists  for  its  own  sake,  and  has  noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with  morals.  Of  thh  view  John 
Keats  was  the  true,  though  perhaps  uacoMcioas,  or%ia». 
tor.   He  created  the  school  of  ornate  and  artistic  poetry 
—poetry  which  has  no  human  robustness  or  passion  about 
it,  but  which  exoeOs  in  tiie  exquisiteness  of  its  workman- 
ship, and  the  delicacy  and  remoteness  of  its  {majfiHtfjon. 
He  himself  said  that  a  perfect  phrase  delighted  him  with 
a  sense  of  intoxication.    His  view  of  poetry  was  that  it 
should  aim  at  tiie  production  of  perfect  phrases,  beautiful 
enough  to  be  welcomed  for  their  own  sake,  apart  ffon 
any  tiiought  or  lesson  tiiey  might  convey.    Here  is  his 
°  fi"  P^^*^  •  "       I  tiiink  poetiy  should  surprise  by 
a  fine  excess,  and  not  by  singularity ;  It  should  strike  tiie 
reader  as  a  wording  of  his  own  Ugliest  thoagte.«Ml 
appear  aln-ost  a  remembrance.    2d.  Its  touches  of 
beauty  should  be  never  half-way,  tiiereby  making  the 
reader  breatiikss  insteul  of  coattot  The  rise,  tiie 
progress,  the  setting  of  imageiy  should,  Uke  tiie  stm, 
come  natural  to  hV     ine  over  him,  and  set  soberly, 
•tthough  in  magm:         leaving  him  in  the  luxwyof 


64    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


twilight.  But  it  is  easier  to  think  what  poetiy  should 
be  than  to  write  it.  And  this  leads  me  to  another  axiom 
— That  if  poetry  comes  not  as  naturally  as  the  leaves 
to  a  tree,  it  had  better  not  come  at  an."  This  is,  in  Imef, 
Keats'  creed,  and  his  work  exemplifies  it  He  doa  little 
to  quicken  the  sympathies,  nothing  to  liberate  the  moral 
impulses,  or  to  instruct  the  intellect.  He  surprises  us  by 
the  •«  fine  excess"  of  his  imagery ;  he  weaves  a  fabric  of 
phrase  wonderful  for  its  colour  and  beauty,  and  he  does 
no  more.  With  that  he  is  content ;  to  dazzle  us  with 
loveliness  is,  according  to  his  view  of  poetry,  a  sufficient 
end  and  aim.  We  have  spoken  of  him  as  helping  to  lay 
the  foundations  of  nineteenth-centuiy  poetry:  it  would 
be  juster  to  say  that  he  v  .vted  till  the  foundations  were 
laid,  and  then  covered  the  superstructure  with  an  intricate 
andiesque  of  strange  and  gorgeous  beauty. 

Endymion,  the  first  work  of  Keats,  reveals  tiie  artistie 
nature  in  its  primal  struggle  to  realize  these  ideals.  It 
has  nothing  to  teach,  no  thought,  or  scheme  of  thought, 
to  unfi^d,  no  real  story  to  tell,  nodiing  but  its  own  wealth 
of  phrase  and  imagery  to  recommend  it  Of  course  it 
pretends  to  have  a  story,  but  as  the  poem  proceeds  the 
story  is  reduced  to  extreme  tenuity.  It  aims,  moreover, 
at  bdi^  a  love-story:  but  there  is  no  human  vigour  in 
its  bve.  To  read  it  consecutiv^  n  ahnost  imponible. 
The  nuggets  of  gold  lie  far  apart,  and  between  them  are 
dreary  intervals,  where  the  work  of  reading  is  indescrib- 
aWy  toilsome,  and  the  toil  yields  but  the  scantiest  result 
The  cardinal  fault  of  EnefymtM  »  that  it  k  confined 
and  unequal,  and  is  overla-d  by  excessive  imagery.  No 
one  felt  its  defects,  however,  more  keenly  than  its  author, 
and  no  critictnn  could  be  more  just  than  the  criticism 
of  his  own  prefiKe  to  k.  He  says,  tke  teader  "  miat 


JOHN  KEATS 


«5 


soon  perceive  great  inexperience,  immaturity,  and  every 
error  denoting  a  feverish  attempt  rather  than  a  deed  ac- 
complished. This  may  be  speaking  presumptuowly,  and 
may  deserve  a  punishment;  but  no  feeling  man  wiU  be 
forward  to  inflict  it;  he  will  leave  me  alone  with  the  con- 
viction  that  tiiere  is  not  a  fiercer  heU  than  the  failure  of  a 
great  object.  The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy;  and 
the  mature  imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy  ;  but  there  is 
a  space  of  life  between  in  which  the  soul  is  in  a  ferment, 
the  cfaaractek-  undecided,  the  way  of  -fe  uncertain,  the 
ambition  thick-sighted;  thence  proceeds  mawkishness, 
and  all  the  thousand  bitters  which  those  men  I  speak  of 
must  necessarily  taste  in  going  over  the  foUowing  pages." 

Nothing  can  be  more  correct,  more  honest,  or  more 
beautifully  expressed,  than  this.   It  exactly  hiti  the  or- 
dinal fault  of  Kfats-  early  poetry_viz.,  mawkishness. 
There  a  a  desire  for  mere  prettiness  of  diction,  an  intem- 
perate use  of  omMiettt.  a  straining  after  verbal  efTect  at 
the  expense  of  thought,  a  weakness  of  touch,  which  wen 
only  too  likely  to  oflTend  the  sense  of  critical  readers. 
But  there  were  also  passages  of  such  rare  and  visionary 
beauty,  of  soch  exquisite  touch  and  diction,  that  the  feel- 
ing man  might  weU  hesitate  to  inflict  any  vciy  severe 
punishment  upon  a  genius  of  such  unusual  promise. 
There  are  few  men  who  have  ever  formed  so  correct  an 
wtimate  of  thehr  own  power  as  Keats;  whatever  were 
the  confessions  of  present  immaturity,  he  had  a  dear 
sense  of  his  own  capacity,  and  never  doubted  his  ability 
to  free  himself  from  his  early  errors,  and  achieve  really 
noble  and  memorable  work. 

In  another  part  of  this  same  preface  he  says  that  while 
JiHdymion  may  dwindle  into  obscurity  he  will  be  plotting 
and  fitting  himself  for  verses  fit  to  Uve.  He  said  on  one 


66    THE  MAKEB8  OF  ENOUSH  POETRY 


occa^n,  «*  I  tiunk  I  shatt  be  remembered  wttii  the  poets 

when  I  am  dead,"  and  no  bitterness  of  rdnike  on  the 
part  of  a  venal  press  ever  dulled  this  clear  perception  of 
the  scope  and  promise  of  his  own  genius.  Endymion  is 
a  confud(m  of  beauties  and  weaknesses,  a  tangled  jungle 
of  rich  foliage,  but  in  it  are  some  of  the  loveliest  flowers 
and  fruits  of  English  poetry.  Its  famous  opening  lines 
should  have  arrested  attention  and  regard : 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever : 

Its  loveliness  increases ;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keq> 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  tweet  dreaan.  and  bealdi,  and  qiuet  bicaddiq;. 

The  touching  modesty  of  its  preface  should  have  saved 
it  froTi  the  harsh  handling  of  a  careless  or  hostile  criticism. 
But  neither  of  these  results  followed.  The  poem  was 
imiversaUy  ridicuted,  and  Keats'  lirst  ofTering  of  beauty 
was  contemptuously  flung  back  in  his  face. 

Like  Shelley,  the  rapidity  with  which  Keats'  genius 
matured  is  astonishing.  Destiny  seemed  anxious  to 
atone  fcv  tiie  brevity  of  the  time  for  w<Mrk  by  hastening 
its  advance.  In  the  later  poems  of  Keats  there  is  no 
trace  of  the  confusion  of  Endymion.  Hyperion  is  a  frag- 
ment only,  but  it  is  second  in  sublimity  and  massiveness 
only  to  the  wcMrk  <tf  Milton.  In  Lama,  Isabella,  and 
the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  we  have  workmanship  which  is  so 
excellent  that  it  is  vain  to  hope  that  it  can  be  excelled, 
and  in  the  half-a-dozen  great  Odes  which  Keats  has  writ- 
ten we  have  work  which  tiie  greatest  of  poets  might 
have  been  proud  to  claim.  In  tiie  sul^  m^c  of  st^ 
gestive  phrase,  such  as 

Magic  casementi,  opening  on  the  foam 
or  peiilM  MM.  in  terjr  fauds  falons 


JOHN  KEATS 

K«te  has  no  master.   There  is  a  veritable  enchantment 
about  these  Odes.   They,  indeed,  surprise  us  by  -  a  fine 
ocess,  and  intojaate  the  imagination  with  their  beauty. 
They  frcquenUy  reveal  also  a  pstieiit  oliMrvatton  of 
nature,  and  an  accuracy  in  describing  her.  which  is  aldn 
to  Wordsworth.   Some  of  his  phrases,  in  the  delicacy 
and  intensity  of  thdr  imaginatMo,  fairly  rival  Shake- 
speare.  They  fix  themselves  instaa^  in  the  memory, 
and  cannot  be  shaken  oflf:    And  in  all  there  is  a  sense  of 
romantic  youth  which  is  in  itsetf  fascinating.    They  are 
the  poems  of  adolescence,  and.  if  they  lack  the  firm 
vigour  of  manly  completeness,  they  excefi  in  tiw  fire  and 
passion  of  young  delight.    Nothing  can  be  truer  or  finer 
than  the  closing  sentence  of  Mr.  Michael  Rossetti's  brief 
biography By  his  early  death  Keats  was  doomed  to  be 
the  poet  of  youthfulness;  by  bdng  Aepeetof  yo«Hifiil- 
ness  he  was  privileged  to  become  and  to  remain  endur- 
r  ht"      ^  °^        expectation  and  ra«.M»natr  de- 

-nie  later  biographers  of  Keats  hwe  made  it  abon- 
dantbr  clear  that  the  Quarterly  criticism  had  nothing 

1^1}^      ""'^  That  impression  is  due 

to  Shdle/s  matchless  dirge.  Adonais,  and  to  Byron's  ai- 
lusion  in  Ikm  Jtum— 

P'^^^""*  fiery  particle. 

Should  ht  iHdf  bewrffcd  o«  by  / 


The  fact  IS,  Keats  bore  his  rt^ectioa  wftli  miet  dignity 
and  manhness.  The  breakdown  of  his  health  was  due  to 
Otter  causes.  It  began  with  a  walking-tour  to  Scotland. 
*»rty  which  his  overexertion,  and  exposure  to  bad 
weather,  ripened  the  first  seeds  of  diMMtt  iihfuT  ' 
inherited  from  his  mother.  Hm  cmm  W 


•8    THE  MAKKHS  OF  ENGLISH  POSTBY 


Tom'i  dnth  of  comumption,  and  dien  hit  most  unfor- 
tunate love  af&ir.   Love  with  John  Keati  was  a  rmtfuti 
of  singular  intensity,  and  the  fire  consumed  him.  He 
was  in  a  constant  fever  of  thought  and  desire,  fascinated 
•nd  repelled,  torn  by  oapty  jeakNtttcB  and  ashamed  of 
them,  living  in  a  constant  whirlwind  of  excited  passion, 
and  it  was  more  than  his  overtaxed  strength  could  endure. 
He  lived  two  years  after  the  publication  of  Emfymum, 
but  they  were  years  of  labour  and  sorrow.   One  nigbt 
he  coughed,  and  then  called  his  friend  Brown  to  bring 
him  the  candle.     I  know  the  colour  of  that  blood,"  said 
be :  "  it  is  arterial  blood.   I  shaU  die."   There  were  tem- 
porary rallies,  but  tiie  mischief  was  too  deep-Mated  for 
cure.    He  lived  to  write  some  of  the  noblest  poems  in 
the  English  language,  and  never  had  the  flame  of  genius 
burned  so  brilliantly  in  him  as  in  those  last  brief  months 
of  disease.  As  a  last  resource  he  went  to  Rome,  and 
there  he  died  in  the  arms  of  his  friend  Severn.   "  I  am 
dying.   I  shall  die  easy;  don't  be  frightened;  be  firm, 
and  tiiank  God  it  has  come,"  said  he.   They  were  his 
hit  words.   He  passed  quieUy  away  In  his  twenty-sev- 
enth  year,  and  his  remains  were  laid  in  the  beautiful  cem- 
etery at  Rome,  where,  seventeen  months  later,  all  of 
Shelley  that  could  be  rescued  from  the  funeral  fire  at 
Spenia  was  laid  beside  him.   He  said  his  epitaph  should 
be, "  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water."  The 
truer  epitaph  is,  "  Here  lies  one  whose  name  is  graven  in 
adamant"   Or  perhaps  we  may  accept  the  fiinciful  trans- 
fomaatioB  of  his  own  imageiy  iriiidi  Shdl^  nMde,i^en 
be  wrote: 


Here  lieth  one  whoie  name  was  writ  in  water; 
But.  ere  the  breath  that  could  erase  it  blew, 
Otadi.  in  lemone  ler  tfiat  Mi  sUi«hler,-. 


JOHN  KEATS 

Ds«A,  the  bimartaHsing  winter,  flew 
Athwart  the  ttreain,  and  time's  mouthlew 
AacnUor  cryMl.  cmUaaoaing  tbt  iuIm 


69 


His  influence  upon  the  poets  of  his  century  has  been 
unique  and  afaidinK:  there  is  scarcely  a  poet,  from  his 
own  day  to  the  days  of  Tennyson  and  Roasetti.  with  the 
solitary  exception  of  Wordsworth,  who  does  not  exhibit 
some  trace  of  that  influence.  «  John  Keats  is  the  grea'  - 
est  of  us  all,"  said  Tennyson :  and  certainly  in  the  work 
of  this  unhappy  youth,  whose  sun  went  down  while  it 
was  yet  day,  there  is  more  of  Shakespeare's  magic,  more 

»!  1'  ^^*y  ^ion.  than  »n  any  other  poet  of 
oar  literatuia. 


VII 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

177/,    First  original  poem.  The  Uj  •/  the  Ust  Mbutnk 
Me  J 180S.    DiaJ  ,t  Aikettfmri,  ai  Siftmttr,  /^j. 

AMONG  the  men  who  did  most  to  direct  the 
course  of  literature  in  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century  the  most  colossal  figure  is 
that  of  Walter  Scott  At  the  time  when  Wordsworth 
had  finally  renounced  the  world,  and  turned  northward 
to  the  cahn  retreats  of  Grasmere,  Scott  was  girding  him. 
•elf  for  his  work.  Scott  was  the  lifelong  friend  of  Words- 
worth, and  there  was  much  in  their  natures  that  was 
akin.   We  have  seen  how  the  disruptive  force  of  the 
French  Revolution  acted  on  Southey  and  Coleridge, 
drivmg  the  one  to  fierce  reaction,  and  the  other  to  the' 
maze  of  philosophic  speculattoa.  We  have  seen  that  it 
produced  no  effect  whatever  on  Keats,  and  that  the  only 
two  great  spirits  who  remained  true  to  its  daring  ideals 
were  SheUey  and  Byron.   Wordsworth  turned  from  its 
Titanic  confusion  to  the  study  of  nature;  Scott  to  the 
study  of  the  romantic  past.    Indeed,  it  can  scarcely  be 
Mid  that  Scott  even  turned  from  it  in  the  sense  in  which 
Wordsworth  did.  for  there  is  no  evidence  that  he  was 
ever  fascinated  by  it  AU  that  wild  outburst,  which  filled 
even  so  calm  a  nature  as  Wordsworth's  with  enthusiasm, 
and  which  made  every  chord  of  the  world's  heart  vibrate 
Witt      miolerabie  stress  and  passion,  passed  over  him 
•Mi  kft  hfan  umaowed.  Soott  sharad  with  Wonkwortli 


sm  WAi/nBR  soor  r 


n 


his  inteme  ddig^t  in  nattire,  but  not  hi*  enthusiasm  for 
humanity.   It  was  the  splendour  of  the  pait  rather  than 

the  thrilling  struggles  of  the  present  which  fascinated  his 
imagination.  There  was  a  sobriety  of  temperament  about 
Scott  whidi  unfitted  him  for  any  active  sympathy  with  the 
great  movements  the  time  in  which  his  lot  was  CMt 
Nevertheless,  however  unconsciously,  the  strong  tide  that 
was  flowing  did  affect  him,  and  the  impulse  of  his  age 
was  on  him.  The  result  oS  that  inqwbe  of  the  age  work- 
ing  on  a  nature  so  deep  and  sob«  as  has  ki  seen  in  a 
species  of  poetry,  which  was  a  magnificent  innovation, 
and  a  long  line  of  glorious  fictions,  which  have  made  him 
the  true  father  <A  tiie  romantic  novel. 

We  have  seen  also  that  of  all  the  great  writeis  <tf  the 
dawn  of  the  century,  only  two  made  their  voices  heard 
in  Europe,  and  achieved  a  cosmopolitan  fame.  Those 
two,  dissimilar  in  almost  every  respect,  were  Scott  and 
Byron.  Yet  few  men  of  really  great  genius  hnve  beta 
so  curiously  limited  in  nature  as  Scott. 

It  was  in  the  year  1805— the  year  in  which  Nelson 
died  in  tiie  cockpit  of  tiie  Victory ;  in  which  Austerlitz 
was  fought,  and  Napoleon  was  crowned  King  <rf  Itafy, 
amid  all  the  wild  storm  of  trampling  hosts  and  falling 
kingdoms— that  Scott  put  forth  his  first  poem.  The  Lay 
^tke  Last  Minstrel.  As  it  was  somediing  <^  an  acci- 
dent that  led  Scott  to  write  novels,  so  it  was  what  seemed 
a  mere  happy  chance  that  produced  the  celebrated  Lay. 
Lady  Dalkeith  had  requested  Scott  to  v  ite  a  metrical 
sketch  of  a  certain  old  legend  ^di  clung  to  tiie  e&trict 
in  which  she  lived.  Nothing  could  have  suited  the  young 
SheriflT-depute  of  Selkirkshire  better.  From  childhood 
his  memory  had  been  stored  with  fantastic  relics  (tf  a 
Old  tnatches  of  baUad-poetiy,  caiioHi 


ta    THE  IIAKSBS  OF  SlfOLIBR  FOB»r 

stories  of  second-sight.  aU  the  odds  Md  cadi  wkich  the 

hteiary  anUquao'  loves  and  cherishes,  were  the  natural 

irfE.^Lw"'  ^^K'^^^l"'.  the  heroic,  the  romantic 
were  the  diet  upon  which  his  imagination  had  been  fed. 
Upon  the  impulse  of  this  requert.  Scott  Wt  to  wwfc  and 

^TVl,  »;P;rited  sketch  of  a  scene  of  feudal  festivity 
«  the  haJl  of  Branksome,  disturbed  by  some  pranks  of  a 

S^Slr^  3tericetchplea.edhimJ:,weUtha^ 
tiiere  flashed  across  hn  mind  the  idet  of  eittemHng  hit 
wmpte  ouUine  so  as  to  embrace  a  vivid  panorama  of  that 

!>K  °^      """^  ^»  passions. 

w,th  wh«h  hi.  «e«che.  in  minstrelsy  had  byXr^ 
fed  h.s  ,m^.nation.  G«d«lbr the  dcetch  g4 
hadex^ded  mto  a  poem  of  six  cantos.Trom  h" 

O^JLT  ^  tZ*  JZIS* 

upcn  imwe.  T«t  rabfect  seemed  to  them  too  local  to 

wm  genend  attention,  and  the  odo^^Uabic  vene  wfaidi 
the  poet  had  employed  entirely  unsuitable  for  narrative 
mt.  Both  m  theme  and  metre  Scott  was  attempting  a 
danng  wnovrtion.  and  iniwtions  are  nuely  pop^L 
with  cnbcs.  As  regards  the  »ei«.  Scott  p4,S^onI 
tator  that  It  was  the  one  metre  perfectiy  adapted  for  nar- 

STof^.  fZ'Z'' 

AdriBts*  wnO.  to  Greece  the  t^tfu/  spring 
or  woes  unnumbered,  heavenly  goddess,  sing. 
The  wrath  which  sent  to  VlMta'tgiemy  lete 
wuU  otm^  xAkH  in  UxOt  sWn. 
bones  unburied  on  the  desert  shore, 
Derounng  dogs  and  hungry  vultures  tore  ; 

«rf«^end^  diat  the  underUned  adjectives  were  mere 
«dftat  the  verse  w«dd  be  much  stronger 
«««  wpresswe  without  them.  TWt  is  namediatdy 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  ft 

tS^^l^L^^'''  ""^  thcr  proof  of 

the  wfapCtbOity  of  octosyllabic  metre  to  the  most  viva- 
C.OU.,  te«e.  and  rewMnt  «mitiv..poetry.  we  have  it « 
Scott  s  own  work.   According  to  Byron's  verdict.  Scott 
ilS"^    H  *''""P*'«*  over  "  the  fatal  facility  of  octo- 
syUaMc  vetae,  and  Byron  in  his  subsequent  poems  was 
not  slow  to  profit  by  the  hMoa.  But  Scott  had  done 
more  than  that.    He  had  invented  a  .  ew  style  of  poetry 
and  »«d  interested  the  world  in  an  entirely  new  Aeme! 
lae  oM  itories  of  knight  and  Udy.  monasteiy  and  castle 
tournament  and  chjviliy.        wliolly  dropped  out  of 
view,  and  amid  the  immense  drama  of  Eurape  as  it  was 
in  1805  men  might  well  suppose  there  was  so  mom  for 
their  fwhrel. 

Scott  again  rekiatfied  the  love  of  diivalty.  the  o«  ad- 
miration  of  the  troubadour,  in  the  English  heart  He 
brought  precisely  the  gifts  needed  for  his  work.  He 
had  ao  philosophic  meditativeness.  but  he  knew  how  to 

tL  %     '^V  »»w  to  paiirt  a  picture. 

The  force  of  his  /erse  lies  in  its  simplic;*  ao.^  vivid 
directness  of  phra^.  His  imagery  irseic.  ^ 
ongiMl,  but  it  is  ahvays  spontaneous,  and  on  c- 
quently  «  striking.  n«  ide.  of  the  wou»dei  d.y 
bleedmg  m  the  sky.  for  instance,  is  not  novel  in  poetry. 
Alcxande.   Smith  speaks  of  -  bright  bleeding  day  "  ; 

impressively  paints  the  red  dawn  of  the 
wweof  Shrewsbo^  ^km  be  sayi, 

How  bload%  Hm  nia  begins  to  posr 
Above  yoMl'  bodcy  hiUI  tedw looted 
At  bis  fii— — — - —  ' 


But  Scott  has  surp 
when  he  paints  the  J 


both  in  conceotratkMi 
I  sun  in  Roktbfi^ 


few,- 


74    THE  MAKERS  OP  ENGLISH  POETRY 

With  disc  like  battle-taiget  red 
He  rushes  to  his  burning  bed. 
Djres  the  wild  wave  with  bloody  U^bi, 
Then  ankt  at  once,  and  alii*  n%itt. 

Mr.  Ruskin  has  testified  how  true  was  Scott's  seaw  of 
colour,  and  with  what  fidelity  he  describes  the  sceneiy 
which  w»  femiliar  to  him.   In  this  quality  his  outdoor 
life  was  the  secret  of  his  power.   He  had  himself  ridden 
over  the  hills  his  heroes  scale  in  mad  flight  or  piusuit 
ay  birtii,  by  natural  impulse  and  character,  he  was  pre- 
osdy  fitted  to  interpret  aU  this.   And  he  did  interpret 
It.  to  the  immeasurable  delight  of  his  leaden.  In  the  eariy 
days  of  the  nineteenth  century.   The  freshness  and 
vivacity  of  his  style,  the  newness  of  his  theme,  his 
obvious  enthusiasm  for  his  subject,  won  for  him  instant 
attention  and  fame.   Fox  and  Ktt  both  read  the  Lay 
with  intense  interest,  and  Pitt  said  that  the  picture  it 
presented  was  "  a  sort  of  thing  which  he  might  have  ex- 
pected in  painting,  but  could  never  have  fancied  capable 
of  being  given  in  poetry."   Before  1805  had  ended  Scott 
was  universally  recognized  as  the  first  poet  of  his  day. 

It  is  needless  for  us  here  to  follow  the  subsequent 
poems  of  Scott  with  minute  description.   In  essential 
w^>ects  there  is  little  difference.   In  each  there  is  the 
same  romantic  interest,  the  same  steady  hand  produoBR 
sound  and  exceUent  work,  the  same  freshness  and 
wholesomeness  of  imagination  and  sentiment.  Never 
was  a  poet  so  entirely  free  from  the  sUghtest  trace  of  the 
morbid    His  verse  is  like  his  own  Scotch  riven:  clear, 
full,  and  pleasant,  suggestive  of  the  mountains  and  the 
open  sky,  and  filling  the  ear  with  simple  music.  But 
there  Scott  s  power  as  a  poet«iAt  Thew  were  other 
and  deeper  things  worldag  im         kmlM  wiiieh  he 


SIR  WALTER  SCXXTT  75 

had  nopower  to  interpret   There  was  an  intense  feel- 
lag  abRMd  that  it  was  the  present  and  not  the  past 
which  was  of  supreme  iu^ort:  the  natitnl  feeUng  of 
men  standing  in  a  new  age,  and  fiUed  with  a  passionate 
hatred  of  its  limitations,  and  an  equally  passionate  belief 
m  Its  enonaoas  promises.   It  needed  Byron  to  interpret 
this ;  and  when  Byron  began  to  lift  up  his  voice  of 
mingled  cynicism  and  rage,  his  wild  ciy  of  despairing 
bitterness  drew  men's  thoughts  away  from  the  old  chiv- 
alrous lays  of  Scott   The  sense  of  the  time  was  pro- 
foundly  right   Poetry  which  is  a  reproductioa  of  the 
past  must  always  bow  before  poetry  which  throbs  with 
the  actiudity  of  the  present    Men  felt  that  the  true 
romance  and  chivalry  of  life  was  at  their  doors,  and 
that  It  was  in  the  present  the  real  knight  must  ride  to  the 
redress  of  wrong,  and  the  real  hero  bow  in  his  solitary 
vigil.   "  The  burden  of  this  unintelligible  world "  was 
being  felt  anew;  the  pressure  of  social  and  theological 
problems  was  increasing,  and  men  wanted  other  sinsei* 
than  Scott  to  move  their  hearts  and  dontaatTSeir 
thoughts. 

It  is  diaracteristic  of  Scott  that  he  knew  perfectly  well 
tha^  when  Byron  began  to  write  ilu  day  was  over 

He  quieUy  said  Byron  had  "  bet  him,"  and  he  never 
sang  again.   Without  a  touch  of  jealousy,  with  simple 

T  uT  ^  *^  *  P°et  ^  him- 

self had  come,  and  instead  of  waging  a  kemg  battle 

or  h,s  lost  supremacy,  he  praised  his  rival,  and  tiien 

left  the  arena  with  aU  the  honours  of  war.   There  are 

few  men  who  eouM  have  done  this.   That  Scott  did 

It,  and  did  it  easily,  is  at  once  a  proof  of  die  sturdy 

manliness  of  his  nature,  and  of  the  robust  commas  i 

•ad  generosity  which  marked  his  character. 


76    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


Scott  left  the  field  of  poetry  with  honour  and  dignity 
but  it  was  only  to  open  a  new  chapter  in  a  great  career. 
He  WM  too  amUtioui  and  too  full  itf  energy  to  test 
content  under  his  defeat.  In  1805  he  had  commenced 
a  story  which  dealt  with  the  history  of  Jacobite  Scot- 
land. In  1 8 14  he  took  up  the  old  MS.,  and  thought 
suffictentbr  wdl  ci  it  to  complete  it  Loddiart  htt  given 
a  vivid  and  memorable  account  of  how  Scott  wrote  it, 
and  Lockhart's  narrative  has  become  a  classic  quotation. 
Scott  wrote  at  white-heat,  and  with  scarcely  a  pause. 
Loddiart  was  assisting  at  a  party  held  in  a  house  whidi 
exactly  faced  the  room  where  Scott  was  writing.  One 
of  the  company  suddenly  rose  from  his  chair  and  said 
he  couU  "  endure  it  no  longer."  What  he  had  been  en- 
during was  the  shadow  of  a  hand,  moving  hour  after 
hour,  with  rhythmic  regularity,  behind  the  opposite 
window,  and  piling  up  as  it  wrote  sheet  after  sheet  of 
MS.  "  I  have  been  watching  it,"  he  said.  "  It  fascinates 
the  eye.  It  never  stops.  after  page  is  ttmma  on 
tliat  heap  of  MS.  and  still  it  goes  on  unwearied ;  nd  so 
it  will  be  till  the  candles  are  brought  in,  and  God  knows 
how  long  after  that.  It  is  the  same  every  night"  Lock- 
hart  suggested  that  it  was  probaUy  some  stupid  en- 
grossing clerk.  "  No,"  said  the  host ;  "  I  well  know  what 
hand  it  is.  It  is  Walter  Scott's.  "  It  was  thus  Waverley 
was  written,  and  a  long  series  of  immortal  fictions,  called 
the  WaverUy  Novels,  commnMcd. 

To  describe  the  WaveHty  Nivels  is  now  needless. 
Their  characteristics  are  well  known  wherever  the  Eng- 
lish language  is  spoken.  There  is  a  confident  ease  in 
Scott's  way  of  telling  his  Mory,  iHiidi  no  ote  wnttr  of 
English  fiction  has  ever  possessed  in  anything  like  the 
"ttme  d^;ree.   He  has  made  hirtoiy  liv^  and  gmenil^ 


SIB  WALTDt  SOOTT 


speaking,  his  historic  pmtnte  aie ootraet  Ati^( 
they  Uve,  and  bear  t^c  impress  of  reality.   His  chatacten 
are  as  truly  creations  of  imaginative  art  as  Shakespt  ve's. 
Scott  never  strains  after  effect ;  he  accomplishes  his  great- 
est results  by  the  use  of  the  ^mfim  waam,  ia  a  *>i»»»^ 
surpassed  only  by  Shakespeare,  and  rivalled  only  by 
Goethe.   It  is  this  simplicity  of  the  WaverUy  Novels 
nudce  tliem  so  uniqiw.   In  almost  every  case  they 
were  rapidly  written.    W^dsteck  was  the  work  of  Hiree 
weeks.    The  Bride  of  Lammermoor  was  dictated  during 
the  intervals  of  agonizing  pain.   Apart  from  the  felicity 
or  imetest  of  the  subject,  there  is  little  difference  in  the 
quality  of  the  work.   Sometimei  Scott  chooMS  a  safa^ 
more  suitable  to  his  genius  than  at  other  times,  but  wiA 
the  exception  of  the  two  novels  written  after  he  had  be- 
come a  paralytic  there  is  little  difference  in  the  genius 
and  power  displayed.   It  is  a  foil,  rich  stream,  llowinf  ott 
with  no  sense  of  eflfort,  with  quiet  strength  and  majesty, 
sinking  at  will  into  a  placid  current,  or  swelling  into  an 
overwhelming  torrent   Until  the  shadow  of  death  fell 
upon  Scott  he  never  kiww  wiMtt  it  tra*  to  watt  apea  i»> 
spiration.   He  was  always  ready  to  write,  and  wrote  wiA 
a  keen  sense  of  vigour  and  enjoyment  which  made  the 
work  a  pastime  and  delight  rather  than  a  labour  to  him.* 
If  one  were  asked  to  jrat  tato  a  seiMeMe  iriwt  is  tfto 
total  impression  5>cott  himself  produces  upon  us  tiwau^ 
his  writings,  we  should  probably  reply,  the  imprcMion  of 
a  Aoroughly  sound  and  wholesooM  nature.   TiMre  is  a 
gonal  and  withal  ixAtct  mutmm  (riUmit  Mm  ll 
very  noticeable.    Since  his  day  we  Ittve  had  tamy  |§> 
rieties  of  novels,  but,in  this  quality  of  a  geniiri  humanf^ 


78    THE  MAKERS  OP  ENGLISH  POETRY 

Scott  still  stands  unrivaUed.  He  has  none  of  the  analytic 
powerof  George  Eliot,  the  subtie  irony  of  Thackeray 
the  grotesque  exaggeration  of  Dickens,  or  the  base  sen- 
sationalism and  tendency  towards  the  uncleM  which  some 
of  our  latest  writers  have  displayed.  The  native  chivahy 
of  his  character  works  out  a  high  and  chivalrous  ideal  of 
womanhood;  his  genial  heaWifulness  preserves  in  him  a 
cordial  and  sympathetic  view  of  Uft.  He  is  free  alike 
from  the  taint  of  scepticism  and  the  disease  of  sensation- 

J^lifii^L^f.       ^"^^  ^''^^  ''^'''^ '      does  not  in 
his  eflort  to  be  improsive  or  original  become  grotesque. 
Of  how  few  can  so  much  as  this  be  saki  ?   Who  has  not 
almost  tittered  at  Dumas  and  Victor  Hugo  when  they 
have  sought  to  be  most  impressive,  and  revolted  from  the 
pictures  in  which  the  horrible  has  been  expected  to  do 
the  work  of  the  sublime?  And  even  in  the  exquisite 
analysis  of  George  Eliot,  full  of  compassion  as  it  is,  who 
has  not  felt  sometimes  a  sense  of  intolerable  pain,  a  feel- 
mgthatthescalpd  goes  too  deeply,  and  does  its  work  too 
inercilessly?  Scott  has  dealt  with  every  form  of  human 
tragedy,  but  he  has  done  so  with  the  large  and  tolerant  spirit 
of  a  great  master.   ITiere  is  a  massiveness  about  his  work 
a  compietaiess,  a  laige-hearted  power ;  he  deals  with  his 
subject  with  a  sort  of  gigaatk:  cue  and  wholeness  of 
view,  which  IS  never  unconscious  of  its  acute  points  of 
mterest,  but  which  subordinates  the  points  where  George 
Ehot  or  Thackeray  wouM  have  paused,  and  to  which 
they  would  have  devoted  all  their  powers,  to  the  interest 
of  the  whole.    Above  all  he  is  a  great  humorist.    He  is 
Jjudc  to  see  the  fun  of  a  situation,  and  his  laughter  is 
Homeric   It  is  this  dement  of  health  in  which  Scott 
stands  supreme,  and  it  is  precisely  this  quality  which  we 
most  need  to-day  in  our  contemponuy  ii^ioii  Mai  poeHy. 


Sm  WALTSB  800TT  7» 


Had  not  disaster  overtikea  Scott  in  the  fidnen  of  his 

fame,  and  shattered  his  icrtunes  in  the  very  moment  of 
their  completion,  it  is  questionable  whether  the  world 
would  ever  have  known  his  true  greatness.   His  works 
had  revealed  the  greatness  of  hu  genius;  adversity  re- 
vealed the  greatness  of  his  character.   Destiny,  which  had 
so  far  apportioned  him  nothing  but  prosperous  days,  with 
troops  of  friends  and  golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of 
men,  suddenly  adjusted  the  balance,  and  made  sorrow  the 
familiar  of  the  last  period  of  his  life.    The  spirit  in  which 
Scott  faced  adversity  was  admirable.    He  bore  his  calam- 
ity with  the  stoicism  of  a  hero.    He  sat  down  with 
broken  powers  to  pay  with  the  earnings  of  his  pen  the 
enormous  debt  of  2"ii7.ocx),  which  the  misnuuu^ement 
of  others  had  entailed  upon  him     He  never  murmured. 
He  wrote  his  cousin,  Humphry  Davy,  that  he  defied  that 
direful  chemist.  Ill-luck,  to  overcome  him.   And  he  was 
true  to  his  boast.    The  last  scenes  in  the  life  of  Scott  are 
unsurpassed  by  anything  in  literature  for  grandeur  and 
pathos.   They  still  live  before  the  student  of  literature, 
and  they  serve  to  reveal  the  genuine  nobility  of  the  man. 
The  picture  of  Scott  fighting  down  decay,  and  dyii^ 
fighting,  is  a  memorable  and  unfoi^ettable  one.    He  met 
his  end  with  perfect  calmness.    His  last  words  to  his 
children  were  tinged  with  the  spirit  of  a  true  and  noble 
piety.    So,  amid  the  mourning  of  the  worid,  Scott  pasMd 
away,  having  fought  a  good  fight,  and  won  the  victory. 
He  left  behind  him  a  splendid  fame,  a  stainless  reputation, 
above  all  a  great  legacy  of  imperishable  genius ;  and  in 
the  thousands  of  pages  he  had  written  there  was  not  one 
that  he  might  wish  yere  bkitted  out  when  he  by  n^oa 
his  death-bed. 


VIII 
COLERIDGE 

Ar»  Mt  Otttrj  St.  M*rj,  Dnaut  Otubir  30,  jwg.  Pttms 
fittt  tMbkii  1796.    DM  M  Julj  2j,  1S14. 

IF  the  greatness  of  a  man  could  be  measured  by  the 
estimate  of  his  contemporaries,  there  is  no  man  who 
loomed  before  his  age  with  a  larger  majesty  of  out- 
line than  Coleridge.    Wordsworth  described  him  as  the 
most  wonderful  man  he  had  ever  known ;  De  Quincey, 
as  the  man  of  most  spacious  intellect ;  Hariitt,  as  the  one 
man  who  completely  fulfilled  his  idea  of  genius.  Car- 
lyle's  striking  description  of  Coleridge  in  his  last  days  is 
likely  to  become  as  immortal  as  Lamb's  description  of 
"the  inspired  charity^oolbqy,"  who  fiUed  him  with 
wonder  and  astonishment,  when  he  wrote,  "  Come  back 
into  memory  like  as  thou  wert  in  the  dayspring  of  thy 
fancies,  with  hope  Uke  a  fiery  column  before  thee— the 
dark  pillar  not  yet  tumedr-Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge, 
k>gician,  metaphysician,  bard ! "   Rarely  has  a  man  of 
genius  received  such  a  perfect  consensus  of  admiration 
from  his  contemporaries  as  Coleridge.   There  was,  indeed, 
about  him  something  <rf  that «  ocean-mindedness  "  which 
he  finely  attributes  to  Shakespeare ;  and,  apart  from  the 
fascination  of  his  eloquence,  and  the  spell  of  an  alluring 
individuality,  what  most  impressed  all  who  knew  Cole- 
ridge was  die  comprdiensiveness  <rf"  his  vision,  and  tiie 
imfundity  of  his  thought. 
The  noble  friendship  which  existed  between  T^m^,nd 


Cokridg^  Md  ^  leii  ^mtmmt  Li*.«^y  bmi^  m- 
timacy  of  Coleridge  wide  noiitlMiji  Md^siiMMrtlMOT 

among  the  brightest  chs^ters  of  liteary  history.  Cole- 
ridge first  met  Lamb  at  CtimfB  Hospitol^and  the  school- 
boy  friemiship  then  (omm^mm  a  lif«ime.   His  ac- 
quaintance with  Wordsworth       SaMki^^eaiK  tator 
and  sprang  rather  out  of  literary  comradeship  than 
spiritual  feUowship.    In  one  essential  respect  Coleridge 
differed  entirely  from  his  great  oHrtemporanes.  From 
first  to  last  there  was  a  certain  romantic  dHMiM*  Ml 
character.    He  was  an  idealist  of  the  purest  type,  and 
never  seemed  at  home  in  the  rough  commerce  of  tbe  world. 
Lamb  humbly  submitted  himself  to  the  yoke  of  drudgeiy, 
and  made  his  literary  work  the  luxury  and  sotMeefaMfe 
of  uncomplaining  suffering  heroically  borne.    He  once 
jokingly  remarked  that  his  real "  works  "  were  to  be  found 
m  the  ponderous  ledgers  of  the  East  India  Oflfce,  and 
there  is  somethuig  to  us  infinitely  pathetk  iaAe^aMHte 
of  so  rare  a  spirit  as  Lamb's  chained  to  the  gaWey-oar  of 
lifelong  toil  in  a  London  office.   Wordsworth,  with  all  his 
real  and  noble  uaworkfiiness,  had  a  certain  shi»dnesB  of 
character,  which  served  him  '  ill  in  the  ukiaHte>dteil> 
tion  of  his  life.   Southey,  when  once  the  f  jf 
youth,  with  its  unconsidered  hopes  and  un&hUled  ambi- 
tions, settled  down,  became  one  of  the  most  iadotEioia 
of  men,  toiling  with  a  pertiaackMM  eiwrgy  hi  emtywA 
of  literature,  and  often  in  ways  that  gave  little  scope  for 
the  exercise  of  his  true  literaiy  gift.   But  Coleridge 
ended  as  he  began,  an  kkaUst,  careless  of  worldly  fame, 
and  unable  to  master  the  merest  mdimeali  ot  wmliHy 
success.   He  had  none  of  that  natural  discernment  which 
takes  a  correct  measurement  of  life,  and  none  of  that 
Mtuirf  pride  wiilch  pwwm  mai  from  the  insolent 


V 


it' 


88    The  B£AKERS  op  ENGLISH  FOETfiY 
imposition  of  the  men  of  this  world  who  have  their  por- 

'"i^lLli?"  ^®  ^  Christ's  he  actuaUy  asked 

to  be  appmiticwi  to  a  shoemaker ;  and  later  on,  when  he 
left  Cambridge,  he  enlisted  as  a  soUier.   With  an  on- 
limited  faith  in  human  nature,  a  curious  childlikenew  of 
spirit,  an  imagination  that  clothed  at  will  the  most  prosaic 
proipecis  with  aUoring  brilliance,  he  found  himseU  in  the 
great  streets  of  the  crowded  world,  as  virtuaO^a  Btnmger 
to  the  common  order  of  human  life  as  though  he  had 
been  bom  upon  another  planet.    He  walked  in  a  world 
of  dreunt,  and  never  bartered  them  for  the  sordid  gross- 
ness  of  reality.   If  we  can  imagine  some  angelic  child 
or  some  simple  shepherd  of  Grecian  myth  and  poetry, 
•uddenly  set  down  in  the  "central  roar"  of  London 
ignorant  of  every  custom  of  tiie  complex  civilization 
of  to-day,  and  heedless  of  its  forces,  we  have  a  tolerably 
accurate  picture  of  Coleridge,  as  he  stepped  into  the  whirl 
of  the  miUion-peopled  life  of  ordinary  men.    He  had 
every  sense  save  common  sense,  every  faculty  save  the 
faculty  of  worldly  shrewdness.    He  was  like  some 
splendid  galleon,  laden  with  a  precious  argosy, 
whose  decks  there  rose  the  unearthly-melodies  of  sJ-  ...g- 
men  and  singing-women,  and  haipm  harping  with  their 
harps,  but  at  whose  hdm  no  one  stood,  to  whose  coune 
upon  the  widening  waters  none  paid  heed.    He  never 
torned  to  adjust  himself  to  his  environment.    He  drew 
from  hi*  lofty  idealism  a  mystic  joy,  which  seemed  ample 
compensation  for  the  loss  of  worldly  honour,  and  igno- 
rance of  the  paths  of  worldly  victory.    Had  the  days  of 
patronage  still  existed,  Coleridge  was  precisely  the  poet  who 
would  have  gained  most  from  the  protection  they  afforded 

J^'"'V!V)1*'*'  ^"^*^°g»  of  an  unsymprtbetic  worid. 
When  he  left  Cambridge,  he  was  thrown  tqwu  the  worid* 


M 


88 

wiA  l«dMd.  wHh  ta«|.q|,al  riches  iiKom^^ 

and  unique,  with  infinite  Uterary  calhuiia«n  aiidap^iidt. 

but  wth  none  of  those  equipments  which  enable  lesser 
!Sf!?**f?"**^**^^**'»ent*nd8uccessin  life. 
^  J°  ^^.^  to  the  task,  of  common  life  is  a 

difficult  and  almost  impossible  task,  and  the  wotkUy  fefl. 
ure  of  Coleridge's  life  is  mainly  attributable  to  this  cause. 
It  m  only  fair,  however,  to  remember  that  in  his  early 

career  at  kMt  CoJeridge  did  what  in  him  lay  to  hamcM 
hu.  genius  to  the  lowliest  literaiy  bboun.   He  sougiit 
drudgery  as  though  he  loved  it,  and  never  compUuned  of 
rts  degradations  or  penurious  rewards.   A  dreamer  of 
dreuM  he  nig^be,  but  a  selfish  idler  he  was  not  He 
never  lost  a  chance  of  work ;  the  fact  Is,  he  seklom  had  a 
chance.   And  yet  this  statement  needs  modification,  for 
whflc  it  is  true  that  he  eagerly  seized  on  every  oppor- 
tuni^  of  cwial  literaiy  employment,  when  the  one  great 
opportunity  of  competence  in  joumaUsm  came  to  hto  he 
at  once  refused  it   At  the  age  of  twenty-eight  an  offer 
was  made  to  him  of  half-shares  in  the  Courier  and  Post, 
on  condition  that  he  devoted  himself  entirely  to  these 
journals.   To  most  young  men  this  would  have  been  a 
suffiaently  brilliant  offer,  for  it  meant  not  less  than  ooo 
per  annum.   Coleridge  rejected  it,  and  has  given  us  his 
rMMiii  for  rejectiag  it   He  wouM  not  give  up  the 
country  for  the  town,  he  would  not  spead  the  stnagth  of 
ftis  brains  on  journalism,  and.  moreover,  he  avowed  his 
opimon  that  any  income  beyond  £350  per  annum  was  a 
real  evil,  and  one  which  he  dM«d  not  incur.   Yet  at  this 
period  he  was  able  to  make  only  a  modest  ucome  from 
journalism,  and  whatever  mere  woridly  prudence  may 
!!!£f ''.i!?  something  very  noble  in  Cole- 

ndgara  reM  of  a  mimificeiit  laoome  which,  according 


84    THE  MAKERS  OP  ENGiJBH  FOETBY 
to  his  view  of  things,  entailed  wealth  which  he  did  ael 
ZiLH  ****  •«"fie«of  higher  aims  which  he  could  not 
J«»J  ••www*,  to  the  troubled  close  of  life, 

he  said  that  poetiy  had  been  for  ktoi  «• maibm 
great  reward."  And  we  cannot  doubt  that  Coleridw 
chose  wisely,  with  .just  and  perfect  apprehension  of  his 
mm  powot,  when  ke  naounced  journalism  for  literature. 
It  was  the  same  teiiq)liitioo  which  to  tatar  diys  w«  pie. 
sented  to  Carlyle,  and  was  refused  with  the  same  noble 
promptitude  and  decision.  To  both  men  ephemeral  and 
anonymooi  •ucoms,  attended  by  whatsoever  munificence 
or  present  reward,  seemed  odious,  coni|»ied  witii  the 
more  remote  and  uncertain  gain  of  literary  fiune  So 

^u^^  "^^^  •***P        of  renunciation  in 

which  teniui  has  always  found  Ha  training,  and  prepared 
to  do  the  one  thing  which  he  was  bom  to  da  TT,is 
action  of  Coleridge's  is  significant  of  the  sincerity  of  his 
nature,  and  reveals  to  us  a  strength  of  manly  fibre  and 
courage  not  usually  associated  with  his  name. 

The  cardinal  defect  in  Coleridge's  life  was  to  one  ac- 
cureed  habit—opium-taking.  The  first  i  alf  of  his  life  is 
i»*aout  flaw  or  serious  blemish.  He  is  poor,  but  noble 
thoughts  console  htai,  noble  work  enchantz^  him.  and  true 
love  sweetens  aU  his  lot.  and  casts  above  his  houta  of 
drudgeiy  its  rainbow  bridge  of  hope.  Coleridge  had 
great  ammal  spirits.  unfaiUng  buoyancy,  and  even  "  un- 
usual physical  energy."  He  was  uniable  to  a  fault,  and. 
indeed,  his  one  cardinal  fault  of  irresolution  sprang  from 
the  sensitive  tenderness  of  his  nature.    At  twenty-one 

had  won 
at  great  odds,  and 


he  had  "  done  the  day's  work  of  a  giant " ;  h 
««P»tation,  he  had  fought  the  world 


not 
what 


altogether  unsuccessfully 
"  ^  pathetically 


Then  aB  diai^.  and 


tiie  «  dark  piaar"  begins  to 


a*  «i  f>m  M  Coterldge.  and  the  brightneH  of  the 
fiery  column  of  hope  begiat  dwrly  to  wwrfw.  and  p.. 

away.  Colcndge's  first  taking  of  opium  was  accidentoL 
^^^^^^rtcommeaikd  to  take  for  his  rheumatic  paina-the 
KiMkk  Bhek  Drop.  It  acted  Uke  the  distillation  of  an 
alchemist;  instandyhiapida Ami M by ongic  laafew 
weeks  the  habit  had  become  a  despotism ;  in  six  months 

*  He  was  degraded,  and 

Ije  kaew  it:  Ui  power  of  free-wiU  was  paralyzed.  From 
that  moment  the  life  of  Coterk%»  beeooMS  a  tragedy 
His  power  of  thought  was  broken,  his  strength  for  tofl 
"opaired,  his  joy  in  life  poisoned,  his  domestu:  peace 
Mrttofed:  Ui  oU  bright  buoyancy  departed,  kaviw 
only  unutterable  despair,  the  agoay  of  impoteaoe,  S 
spasmodic  struggles  of  a  will  that  knows  itself  infirm,  and 
which  after  each  attempt  at  freedom  aiaks  k)w«r  ia 
cotmpting  boadage. 

Then  is  good  reason  for  thiaUag  that  fai  the  ead 
Coleridge  broke  his  bondage,  but  it  was  not  tiU  the 
Usuries  of  domestic  love  were  closed  to  him,  and  he 

Had  «^  P«m«r  to  open  those  further  dooia  of  the  treas- 
unes  of  wisdom  to  whkh  hii  ywrthfid  genio.  h«l  led 
lum.   It  has  indeed  been  stupidly  aUeged  that  the  habit 
of  opmm^ing  gave  fineness  and  ethereal  brilliancy  to 
ma  poetry  of  Coleridge,  but  this  is  whoUy  false.  The 
noblest  work  of  Coteridgewa.  do«,  beftJhi^quhS 
the  fatal  habit.   From  that  moment  the  fountain  of  hii 
gemus  beaune  intermittent  in  flow,  and  deficient  in 
quak^.  No  oae  ka«r  it,  no  one  felt  it.  more  keenly 
than  he.   Years  after,  whea  he  agala  met  Woithwoith 
in  the  zenith  of  his  pqwen,  and  thought  of  his  own  teat 
opportunities,  he  wrote  those  pathetic  lines  in  which  «e 
ncai  to  haar  the  tighingi  (tf  a  breaking  heart: 


86    THE  MAKERS  OF  EUGIJBH  VOmSLY 

O  great  Bard  t 

Eieyet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air. 
with  steadfiut  eye  I  viewed  thse  in  the  choir 
Of  ever-enduring  men. 
Ah!  as  I  listened  with  a  heart  forlorn. 
The  pnhe.  of  my  being  beat  anew ! 

Oi  De  Quincey's  famous  Con/essions  he  says :  "Oh 
may  the  God  to  whom  I  look  for  mercy  through  Christ,' 
show  mercy  on  the  author  of  Tke  Confessions  of  an 
Optum-eater  if.  as  I  have  too  suong  reason  to  believe, 
his  book  has  been  the  occasion  of  seducing  others  into 
the  withering  vice  through  wantonness.   From  this 
aggravation  I  have.  I  humbly  trust,  been  free.   Even  to 
the  author  of  that  work  I  pleaded  with  flowing  tean.  and 
with  an  agony  of  forewarning."   There  is  no  mistaking 
ttie  ineaning  of  these  pathetic  words.   If  the  later  life  of 
Colendge  stands  out  in  painful  contrast  to  the  earUer :  if 
It  appear  desultory,  aimless,  brilliant  only  with  an  inter- 
mittent  splendour,  the  fiery  pillar  only  at  rare  intervals 
tonung  its  Divine  radiance  towards  him,  there  is  one  ex- 
planation for  it  all-sad.  tragic,  and  sufficient-"  the 
accursed  drug." 

What  of  the  works  of  Coleridge?    It  may  be  said 
briefly  that  it  is  upon  his  poetry  that  the  fame  of  Cole- 
ndge is  built.   His  Fnend  is  fuO  of  the  ripest  wisdom : 
his  Biographia  Literaria  of  isolated  passages  of  great 
beauty;  his  lectures  on  Shakespeare  have  long  held  their 
place  as  masterpieces  of  critical  insight;  but  it  is.  after 
all.  by  h,s  poetry  that  future  generations  will  know  him. 
Ihe  Ancient  Mariner      Ckristabel  stand  alone  in  Ene- 
hsh  hterature.    Coleridge  has  an  extraordinary  poweTof 
^erpreung  the  supernatural,  the  night-side  of  Nature, 
that  weird,  subtle,  spiritual  undercunent  of  life  which  in- 


OCHJ&BIDGB  87 

vests  with  mysterious  significance  this  hard  outer  world. 
In  doing  ^tu»  he  has  doae  superbly  what  no  oOer  has 

attempted  with  more  than  partial  success.  He  possesses 
force  of  imagination  and  felicity  of  epitliet,  and  each  in 
an  extraordinary  degree.  His  words  are  music,  and  his 
power  of  producing  on  the  ear  the  effect  <rf  fine  music 
merely  by  the  assonance  of  words  is  unrivalled.  No 
great  poet  has  written  less,  but  the  best  of  what  he  has 
written  is  so  perfect  of  its  kind  that  there  can  be  no 
mistaking  the  superscripticMi  of  immortally  wiUi  which 
it  is  stamped. 

The  real  wealth  of  Coleridge's  mind,  however,  was 
poured  out  in  his  conversations,  and  of  these  we  have 
but  scanty  examples.  Yet  these  are  enough  to  indicate 
that  the  man  was  greater  than  anything  he  adiieved. 
Coleridge's  conversation  was  an  overpowering  stream: 
wise,  witty,  profound,  embracing  all  subjects,  astonishing 
aU  hearers.   He  once  asked  Lamb  if  he  had  ever  heard 
him  preach.   "I  have  never  heard  you  do  anything 
else,"  said  Lamb.    It  was  a  perfectly  just  description  of 
Coleridge's  conversations.   Any  subject  gave  him  a  text, 
and,  once  started,  he  would  maintain  for  hours  a  sort  of 
inspired  monologue,  often  mystical,  occasionally  incom- 
prehensible, but  always  most  impressively  eloquent  He 
needed  a  Boswell,  and  no  man  since  Johnson  would  have 
so  wdl  repaid  the  assiduity  of  that  prince  of  eaves- 
droppers.  The  few  specimens  of  table-talk  which  are 
oure  are  not  less  marked  by  their  incisiveness  than  by 
Adr  luminous  and  sorrowful  wisdom.   In  all  Coleridge's 
later  utterances  the  accent  of  suffering  is  very  pronounced. 
We  feel  that,  like  Dante,  he  is  «  a  man  who  has  been  ia 
hell."    He  inspires  *in  us  a  tenderness  and  sympathy 
whidi  arrest  judgment,  and  hush  the  voice  of  censure,  for 


88    THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETEY 

which  there  was  but  too  much  ground  of  jurtifiartioiL 
It«  .mp^ible  to  tl^of  Coleridge  without  a  r^Z 
^^^^  »«d  ««^on.  and  we  may  say  of  him  as 
Mis.  Browning  said  of  Napoleon,  but  with  greater  trulh : 

Ido  not  praise  him :  but  since  he  had 
The  genius  to  be  loved,  why  let  him  have 
The  justice  to  be  honoured  in  his  gimve. 

He  himself  has  appealed  yet  more  eflectuiUy  to  our  sym- 
pathy m  his  own  pathetic  epitaph :  ^  V™- 

Stop.  Christian  passer-by ;  stop,  child  of  God. 
Airf  read  with  gentle  breast.   Beneath  this  ski 
A  poet  hes,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he. 
u  Wt  one  thc  aght  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C 
That  he  who  many  a  year  with  toil  of  breath 
Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  dtMlL 

He  Mtod«,dhopedthreagh  Christ  Do  thou  the  same. 

«d^*  ^f^'f  ^^^S^''  ^tyle  are  its  occasional  tur- 
f„  hL  ,t  T"^'   ^'  »°«t  apparent 

L        r  ^r';""'  "  attributable  to 

^  k  L  w:S^^'/°""'  uncongenial.  It 

^  m  the  worid  of  pure  imagination  he  was  most  at 

excellence.   In  dehcate  and  airy  fancy,  not  less  than  in 

^usbate  the  one.  and  the  Anaent  Manner  the  o^^ 
Z  "  ^"'^  metaphysician  is7^ 

"r^is  d^aSir^.'^  fccumely  perceived  immedLely 
lumiornumyyeaiswhen  it  wrote:  - CWeri<ig«,  of  rfi 


CDLl 


fE 


men  who  ever  lived,  was  always  a  poct^-in  aU  his  moods 
and  they  were  many,  inspired."   It  is  so  the  best  poenv 

of  Coleridge  still  impress  us,  and  when  the  logician  and 
the  metaphysician  weaty  us,  we  turn  with  ever  fresh  de- 
light to  the  bard.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  Coleridge  was 
so  seldom  the  bard,  and  so  often  the  metaphysidan ;  for 
who  would  not  give  all  the  prose  writings  of  Coleridge 
for  another  twenty  pages  of  poetiy  like  the  Ameieut 


IX 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY 


t  f  "'A''  '^74-    Became  PhUU^, 

laij.    Died Mt  Greta  Hall,  Kemick,M,rekii,jS43r^ 

WHEN  we  speak  of  those  who  have  wrouRht 
m<»t  nobly  in  the  field  of  modern  English!  it 
_         k  impossibk  altogether  to  ignore  Robert 
Southey.   That  there  should  be  any  tempition  to  do^ 
may  seem  somewhat  strange.   But  the  reasons  are  not 
?t?eS.  p!!f  Ji^^"^'  *°       g--*  brotherhood 

force  of  genius.   To  write  of  Wordsworth  aad  Colcrid  J 

and  say  nothing  of  Southey,  would  be  invidlo«  u^I 

Hti^n  J"-  ^       ^"^^^^  are  nouo^ 

^517^  ^^"^  The  man  who 

J«r^fr.endofUmb.  the  true  «ulWthfulcouns^^ 
C^em  h«  difficult  life,  and  his  most  efficient  helper, 

to  maintain 

h.s  cause  through  evil  and  '  rough  good  report.  andTin 
T^Zl  "  fr""  ^""■'^ 

Thl^r  !  'J*^*  "^^^  ^''^  «°  «""ch  to  render 
Ae  literature  of  their  time  illustrious.  But  the  point  of 
divergence  between  these  men  and  Southey  is  thrt.  white 
he      the  more  perfect  specimen  of  the  man  oTuST 

superiors  m  aU  that  constitutes  real  genius  Indeed  .> 
«.y  be  weU  doubted  if  Southey  po-eLd^eai^t  lL 


BOBERT  80UTHEY  91 

He  possessed  great  talents,  and  he  used  them  with  won- 
derful apUtude  and  industry.  He  always  wrote  well,  but 
rarely  with  that  supreme  touch  and  impirBtioa  which 

give  immortality  to  literature.  He  presented  to  his  age 
a  noble  spectacle  of  a  life  of  unsurpassed  literary  industry, 
Awiuwted  by  admirable  purposes,  and  free  from  faults 
of  conduct  such  as  disfigure  the  fame  of  some  of  his  great 
contemporaries.  Byron  has  used  all  the  resources  of  his 
wicked  wit  in  holding  Southey  up  to  ridicule,  but  even 
Bjrron  recoj^nized  his  true  character  when  he  said, "  He 
is  the  only  existing  entire  man  of  letters."  There  is 
nothing  in  burlesque  poetry  more  bitter  in  its  humour 
than  the  picture  Byron  draws  of  Southey,  in  the  Vision 
of  Judgment,  offering  to  write  the  life  of  Satan  since  he 
had  written  the  life  of  Wedey,  and  dacribjag  hoir  be 
would  publiah  it  ~ 

^  In  two  octavo  volumes  nicely  boaad. 
With  notes  and  preface,  all  that  most  allures 
The  irious  purchaser ;  and  there's  no  ground 
For  fear,  fiir  I  can  choose  aqr  own  miewns. 

And  it  mtist  be  confessed  that  the  political  changes  of 
Southey  gave  an  unscrupulous  antagonist  Iflce  %roa 
only  too  good  ground  for  the  stiU  bitterer  itaiuM^ 

He  had  w  •  :en  pnUses  of  a  reg^dde  ; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever ; 

He  had  written  for  republics  far  and  wide. 

And  then  against  them  bitterer  than  ever; 

For  pantisocracjr  he  once  had  crwd 

AhMd— a  scheme  lew  moral  tfnn  'twas  clever; 

Then  grew  a  hearty  anti-Jacobin. 

Had  turned  Ms  coat— and  would  have  turned  his  dkhk 

When  Byron  took  to  controversy  any 


M    THE  KAKSBS  OF  ENQUBR  FOSXBT 

good  enough:  tbcn  was  ao  nan  man  adrait  ia  thimr* 

mg  mud,  or  more  careful  to  select  the  moet  unfragraat 
quaUties  of  that  peculiarly  unwelcome  missile.  The 
nmOt  of  Bynm'M  attMhs  on  Southey  is  that,  for  vast 
aumbers  of  readers,  Southey  k  only  kaown  through  the 
medium  of  Byron's  burlesque.  They  see  the  mud-spat, 
teed  renegade  of  Byron's  verse:  they  do  not  know  the 
ioytl  fnead  of  Coleridge,  and  the  perfect  biographer  of 
Nelson.  ^ 

It  was  as  a  poet  Southey  first  c'     nged  the  attention 
of  his  countrymen,  and  he  dieu  wearing  the  bays  of 
How  is  It  then  that  his  poetiy  has  so 
wholly  faUen  mto  desuetude  to^y?  The  main  caun 
lies  m  the  fact  that  his  poetry  has  no  true  relation  to 
luman  life  and  experience.    The  qualities  whicl;  -e 
pMwaaiee  to  poetiy  are  various.   Poems  may  be  cx- 
potitioas  of  nature,  summaries  of  experience,  knons  te 
philosophy,  vivid  and  ardent  pictures  of  human  emotion, 
the  qumtessence  of  passionate  hopes  or  stiU  more 
pmjionate  sorrows.   Or,  even  if  they  can  hardly  be 
ranked  under  one  or  other  of  these  headi,  they  may 
StiU  live  by  some  curious  felicity  of  phrase  which  lin- 
gers m  the  memory  and  stimulates  the  fancy  or  im. 
agination.    Southey's  poetry  has  none  of  these  quali- 
ties.    He  has  no  power  of  phrase,  none  of  those  con- 
centrated and  intense  epithets  which  cannot  easily  be  for- 
gotten.  He  has  no  true  insight  into  Nature ;  he  does  not 
know  her  at  fint  hand,  and  is  therefore  unable  to  depict 
her  with  fidelity— a  curious  lack  in  the  writings  of  a  man 
who  was  the  close  friend  of  Wordsworth,  and  who  knew 
now  to  recognize  at  its  proper  worth  Wordsworth's 
power  of  reveaUng  Nature  when  most  of  his  contempo- 
^mies  saw  aodiing  in  his  poems  but  idiolie  siayUei^Mri 


^OBKKt  80DTHET  n 


"jj^j^"^  y**"-  Nor  dowSouthey  strike  any  true 
vibnliaf  cboid of  deep inmna experience.  Therekno 
passion  in  his  voice;  or,  if  there  be.  it  is  hislriosic  per 
sion— shaUow,  stagey,  and  simulated.  He  teaches  noth- 
iiig|he  reveals  nothing.  His  whole  theory  of  poetry  was 
hopvleialy  wroog.  Hb  tiMmes,  for  the  most  part,  are 
utterly  remote  from  human  life,  and  Us  ■wftfcftii  a 
loose,  rambling,  rhymeless  metrical  arrangement ;  occa- 
rimially,  indeed,  striking  a  note  of  real  mek>dy,but  for  the 
naost  pert  Uttie  better  tiian  poor  prose  run  mad  When 
he  would  be  impressive  he  becomes  bombastic ;  whm  h« 
aims  at  description  he  attains  only  diffuseness.  He 
0"t  an  immense  stream  of  descriptive  and  semi- 

descripthw  vene,  as  la  sodi  8  poem  as  TXcAiAcr,  in  which 
there  is  scarcely  one  striking  epithet,  oae  ^caai  c  rad 
imagination,  one  note  of  true  poetic  power.  In  late  life 
Coleridge  read  again,  at  the  request  of  Thomas  Hood, 
Soudiey's /4NM  ifAfv.tmd  this  is  the  crushing  verdict 
which  he  pronounces  on  a  poem  for  some  of  iriMse  Bact 
at  least  he  himself  was  responsible.   "  I  was  really  aston- 

"?LS*"*'^*'  "  schoolboy,  wretched, 

«»-«ric  marhinsiy;  (a)  at  thetransmogri6cation  of  the 
■f  ??-  )  igo  into  a  modern  novel-pawing  im»^te  of 
;  ^  of  Reason,  SL  Tom  Paine  in  petticoats,  but  <  so 
lovely  and  in  love  more  dear,'  •  on  her  rubied  cheek  hung 
pity's  ofyttal  gem';  (3)  at  the  otter  want  of  aUriiythmin 
its  verse,  the  monotony  and  dead  plumb  of  its  pmm, 
and  the  absence  of  aU  bone,  muscle,  and  sinew  in  thr 
single  lines."  The  latter  clause  of  this  criticism  may  be 
fairly  appUed  to  aD  the  more  ambitious  poems  of 
Southey.  There  is  no  virility  in  them.  We  read  them 
with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  wonder  at  their  former 
popularity,  and  we  have  no  desire  to  re-read  or 


M    THE  IfAKEBS  OF  EETOUBB  FQEIKT 

ponesB  them.  We  cheerfully  acqdeMe  fai  ^  ine 
that  has  consigned  them  to  oblivion,  and  we  feel  thtt  ao 
^nt^nervice  could  be  done  to  Southcy's  memory  than 
to  dWnter  tben.  However  mudi  we  may  r^et  the 
spirit  of  Bryon's  brilliant  invective,  we  cannot  h^agree> 
ing  with  him  in  the  criticism  which  writes  down  as  trash 
the  gouty  hexameters,  the  "spavined  dactyls,"  and  the 
founderad  v«w  "  of  Southe/t  multitudiiious  attempts 
in  poetry. 

The  chief  interest  of  Southcy's  poetry,  from  a  litetaiy 
point  of  view,  is  that  with  all  its  novelties  of  rhythm  it  is 
a  survive  of  the  past.   It  is  a  curious  example  of  poetry 
which  IS  modern  in  form,  but  is  wholly  at  variance  with 
the  modem  spirit.   It  is  an  interruption,  the  interpola- 
tion of  a  worn-out  ideal,  in  the  ^uU  current  of  new 
2«^glrti,  and  new  ideab  of  poetry,  which  marked  the 
beginning   of  the   century.    Southey  received  the 
Lamrateship  on  the  death  of  Pye  ini8i3,  and  although 
in  all  that  concerns  mere  form  there  could  not  be  greater 
Wiance  than  between  Pye  and  Southey,  yet  essentially 
the  poetic  traditions  of  Pye  are  reproduced  in  Soutliey. 
It  was  not  altogether  a  stroke  of  malicious  satire,  it  was 
agenuine  critical  instinct,  that  led  Byron  to  identiAr 
Southey  witti  Pye.  and  exclaim  — 

Pjreoone  again?  Nonoie— aeawnor  dMt. 


TTiere  is  the  same  lack  of  depth  and  freshness,  the  same 
tarren  platitude,  the  same  stereotyped  way  of  treating 
Nature,  and  entire  deficiency  of  any  real  instinct  for  her 
mterpretation.  To  Southey  Nature  is  once  more  a  mere 
wn«Uoncf  properties  for  the  adornment  of  his  verse. 
«e  is  always  on  the  tookout  for  grandiose  effects.   If  an 


BOMBRT  BODTHET  M 

immense  collection  of  adjectives  could  interpret  Nature, 
Southqr  n^t  be  her  iirtctprater,  bat  be  entirely  lacks 
that  largeness  of  touch  which  malm  bia  verbal  pfetww 
impressive.  It  is  said  that  Southey  regarded  the  rise  of 
the  ornate  school  of  poetry  as  a  vice  in  art,  and  con- 
demned it  unqMriagly.  We  can  weU  beUeve  this  whan 
we  remember  that  the  two  chief  distinction  of  tilt  ornate 

school — of  which  Tennyson  is  the  undisputed  master  

are  felicity  of  epithet,  and  exquisite  fidelity  in  the  depic- 
tion of  nataral  phenMnena.  Keati  set  tiie  example  of 
the  one,  and  Wordsworth  of  the  other.  But  to  tile  les- 
sons of  both  Southey  was  strikingly  indifferent.  Per- 
haps the  real  reason  of  this  indifference  and  lack  of  in- 
■i^  is  to  be  found  in  the  character  of  Southey^  life. 
He  did  not  give  himself  time  to  be  a  poet  He  wai  an 
intensely  bu^  man: 

He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blaahsrpraH, 
And  more  of  both  than  anybody  knows. 

TTicre  was  no  touch  of  brooding  contemplatioa  about 
him,  no  time  in  his  laborious  life  for  meditative  calm. 
He  took  up  poetiy  in  a  thoroughly  businessUke  way, 
and  applied  himself  to  it  as  he  would  to  the  writii^  of 
a  review  article,  and  with  much  the  same  results.  He 
writes,  for  instance,  to  one  of  his  friends :  "  Last  night  I 
began  the  prefece  [to  Specimens  of  English  Pbets\  And 
now,  Grosvenor,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  have  to  do.  I 
am  writing  (i)  The  History  of  Portugal,  (2)  The  Chronicle 
of  the  del,  (3)  The  Curse  of  Kehama,{4)Espriella's  Let- 
ters,  Lode  you,  all  these  I  etm  writing.   I  can't  afford 
to  do  one  thing  at  a  time— no,  nor  two  neitiier;  and  it  ie 
only  by  doing  many' things  that  I  contrive  to  do  so 
much."   Much  of  the  explanation  of  Southey's  fiulure  as 


96    THE  MAKSBS  OF  KNGUBS  POTIST 

•  poet  lies  in  this  confession.   Po«tiy  wm  aot  tiM  goK- 
toiy  purpose  of  his  life;  it  was  the  recreation  rather  than 
the  business  of  his  inteUect   And  poetry,  more  than 
any  other  art.  doBMids  the  entire  surrender  of  its  votaries 
and  the  complete  dedication  of  their  powers.  Southey 
was  unable  to  make  that  surrender.   It  could  not  but 
happen,  therefore,  that  he  should  fall  back  on  trite  ideas 
and  eflete  modeb;  that  he  should  flUl  in  the  accurate 
depiction  of  Nature;  that  he  should  reseat  the  rise  of  a 
school  of  poetiy  which  spends  infinite  patience  on  the 
PWfertion  of  its  form;  and  that,  finaUy,  his  own  poetry 
■hould  become  one  of  the  most  remaricaUe  anomalies  of 
inodern  literature,  and  shouM  utterly  fail  in  securine  any- 
thing beyond  the  most  ephemera!  and  imperfect  fame. 
We  are  dUefly  concerned  here  with  Southey's  claims 
a  poet,  but  it  win  be  com^lent  to  include  in  our 
wrvey  his  numerous  prose  contributions  to  Uteiatare. 
And  hw,  again,  it  may  be  said.  Southey  suffers  from 
tte  excess  of  his  industiy.   At  the  best,  the  stream  of 
his  genius  was  aot  copious:  concentrated  within  narrow 
bounds,  It  might  have  worn  a  permanent  channel  for 
Itself;  but  Southey  committed  the  error  of  diffusing  it 
over  an  immense  area,  where  its  best  qualities  are  dissi- 
pated.   He  certaialy  wrote  ftr  more  -than  anybody 
knows.     Too  much  of  his  work  was  reaUy  a  superi<i 
sort  of  hack-work,  done  to  order,  and  therefore  deficient 
in  charm  and  spontaneity.   Who  has  read  his  ^«/^  ^/ 
Bramlf  Yet  it  is  a  work  of  great  labour,  and  possess^ 
many  passages  of  real  eloquence  and  force.   That  hn- 
portial  process  of  natural  selection  which  goes  on  in 
hterature  has  by  this  time  definitely  rejected  almost  aU 
Southey  s  more  ambitious  works,  and  has  left  us  two  only 
of  his  shghter  works  as  candidates  for  Immortality— Ws 


ROBERT  80UTHEY  ff 


«f  WtsUjf  and  his  Ufi  of  Ntlson.   Even  the  fint  of 
dMie  hM  not  the  hold  upon  the  public  miml  it  once 
had ;  perii^»  it  now  ow«i  to  Aunt  miiakf  to  tiM  «»• 
fession  of  Coleridge,  that  it  was  the  favourite  of  Ui 
library  among  many  favourites,  that  he  had  read  it  twenty 
times,  and  could  read  it  when  he  could  read  nothing 
dK.  But  hi*  ii// 4^  A>4Mr  itiU  raoiaini  M  the  mort 
perfect  piece  of  biography,  on  a  small  scale,  which 
modem  literature  possesses.   Even  Byron  could  find 
aoHiing  but  praise  for  so  admirable  an  essay  of  literary 
art   Its  charm  lies  fai  to  perfect  luckSt^.  itiroi  finii,  and 
simplicity  of  style.   The  narrative  moves  witil  qukt 
power,  with  the  case  of  complete  mastery,  never  once 
beeooiag  dull,  never  surprising  us  by  unexpected  and 
evanescent  ewellencei,  but  never  MUng  to  ffU  tke  Mir 
with  pleasant  music,  or  to  keep  the  attention  at  a  steady 
poise  of  interest   What  praise  can  be  higher  than  to 
fKf  tfiat  Southqr  has  risen  without  effort  to  the  het^ 
of  the  most  sptendid  story  of  modem  heratmi*  aad  ha 
reared  a  fitting  monument  to  the  noblest  of  »*«*4fti 
patriots?  In  no  other  work  of  Southey's  is  thei«  i 
much  that  reveals  the  noble  qualities  of  his  mind  ot 
his  style.   He  writes  with  a  sense  of  inspimtioa  a.  d 
enthusiasm  which  makes  his  story  an  epic.   The  real 
poeby  of  his  soul,  never  fitly  expressed  in  h-  .  ?«e,  is 
uttered  here.   There  are  few  nobler  ^  t.v  sages  in  t^.e  Eng- 
lish language  than  the  last  pages  of  this  brief  biography, 
and  especially  its  conclusion,  so  laudatory  and  yet  so 
just  so  measured  and  yet  so  triumphant,  that  it  thrills  us 
•tin  Bke  a  peal  of  trumpets,  or  the  last  notes  of  some 
majestic  organ  requjpm:  "  Yet  he  cannot  be  said  to  hfve 
fallen  prematurely  whose  work  was  done;  nw  ought  he 
to  be  lamented  who  died  so  full  fd  hoaow^  aad  at  tiM 


98     THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

height  of  human  fame.  The  most  triumphant  ^ath  is 
that  of  the  martyr;  the  most  awful,  that  of  the  martyred 
patriot;  the  most  splendid,  that  of  the  hero  in  the  hour 
of  victory ;  and  if  the  rhariots  and  horses  of  fire  had  been 
vouchsafed  for  Nelson's  translation,  he  could  scarcely 
have  departed  in  a  brighter  blaze  of  glory."  Prose  like 
this  is  worth  many  reams  of  Thalabas  and  Curses  of 
Kehama;  and  long  after  the  meretricious  glitter  of 
Southey's  poetry  is  forgotten,  his  Ufe  of  Nelson  wfll 
remain  as  one  of  the  few  absolutely  perfect  specimen 
of  biography  which  we  possess. 

It  might  also  be  justiy  added  that  Southey's  own  life 
will  remain  as  an  admirable  example  of  a  career  devoted 
to  the  service  of  literature,  and  characterized  throughout 
by  magnanimity  of  mind  and  purity  of  conduct.  Is 
Southey  magnanimous?"  asked  Byron  of  Rogera  when 
he  desired  to  meet  him  in  1813,    Rogers  replied  that  he 
could  guarantee  the  magnanimity  of  Southey,  and  the 
two  poets  met   It  is  true  that  the  meeting  formed  no 
real  basis  for  future  friendship.   Don  Juan  was  soon  to 
see  the  light,  and  much  as  Southey  valued  the  friendship 
of  Byron,  he  dared  not  let  that  poem  pass  without  pro- 
test against  the  degradation  of  great  powers  and  the 
pro.«.iaUon  of  poetry  which  it  displayed.  Friendship 
between  two  men  so  alien  was  virtually  impossible. 
There  was  a  side  of  Southey's  character  which  Byron 
was  incapable  of  appreciating,  but  which  for  us  consti- 
tutes its  dignity  and  nobleness.    He  knew  how  to  repress 
himself,  how  to  be  patient  under  the  limitations  of  his 
lot,  how  to  practice  without  murmur  daily  self-sacrifice 
and  industry  for  the  sake  of  those  he  loved.   He  knew 
also  how  to  appreciate  qualities  he  did  not  possess;  and 
notiung  is  more  beautifully  conspicuous  in  his  life  than 


BOBEBT  SOUTHEY 


Ail  deUght  in  tiie  fame  of  otheti.   He  ras  always  ready 
to  help  with  pen  or  purse  any  literary  aspirant  aad  his 
geniality  of  temperament  in  this  respect  added  no  incon- 
siderable burden  to  the  labour  of  his  life.    He  was  not  a 
great  man,  not  one  of  tiiose  rare  mm  who  impress  us  by 
the  amplitude  of  their  powers  and  the  splendour  of  thdr 
achievements.    But  if  not  a  great  man,  he  was  a  good 
man,  with  a  sincere  and  unostentatious  goodness,  whose 
outward  ecjKession  was  found  in  a  life  of  genial  sym- 
pathies, of  unremitting  industry,  of  strenuous  purpose.  j 
Faults  of  temper  we  may  charge  him  with,  but,  as  Froude 
says  of  Carlyle,  in  aU  the  graver  mattere  of  the  law  he  is  • 
Wamdess.   He  set  a  noble  example  of  wiat  the  hfe  of  j 
the  man  of  letters  should  be;  and  if  we  cannot  wholly  j 
endorse  the  eulogy  of  Landor  when  he  s^. 

No  firmer  breast  than  thine  hadi  Haaven 
To  poet,  sage,  or  hero  given, 

we  may  at  least  agree  that  the  pious  excellence  of  his  life 

justifies  Landor's  concluding  Uncs,  that  he  was  one  who  I 

ilaB  at  tiw  bat, 

.  .  .  with  soul  elate. 
Rise  up  before  the  Eternal  Throne, 
And  hear,  in  God's  own  voico.  <•  Wett  doMi " 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Ar»  at  Ciker  mouth,  JfrU  J,  1770,    P^m  fnt  MM, 
Became  PetfUmrt^ti,  1843,    Dkd  *t  RuU  Mmm, 
^frtl  33,  i8so.  ' 

WE  now  come  to  the  consideration  of  the  char- 
acter, work,  and  influence  of  WiUiam  Words- 

««.„t.»i  v^"^  ^"""nywspccts,  and  those  the  most 
essential,  Wordsworth's  influence  is  the  most  powerfiil 
and  abiding  poetic  influence  of  the  Victorian  period. 
Dunng  hK  hfetime  his  fame  was  comparatively  restricted, 
and  dunng  the  greater  part  of  his  career  his  very  claim 
to  be  a  poet  was  eagerly  disputed,  and  widely  and  w- 

5!^^^  ^^f'^-  ^^^'""y'^  ^«'dict  that  he  W.S  a 

drivdhng  idiot,  and  wouldn't  do,  has  become  historical, 
and  18  a  memorable  example  of  the  ineptitude  and  viru- 
toice  of  that  criticism  which  prevailed  in  the  palmy  days 
<a^tEdtn6urgh  Review.  By  a  curious  chastisement  of 
Fa^the  anaent  criticism  is  chiefly  remembered  to-day 
hy  ite  contemptuous  hostility  to  Byron,  its  brutal  attadc 
on  Keats,  and  its  undiscerning  violence  of  hatred  for 
Wordsworth.   Sydney  Smith  said  he  would  be  glad  to 

Macaulay  was  of  everything, 
and  the  dogmatical  criticism  of  Macaulay  was  typical  of 
the  criticism  of  the  time.   It  possessed  neither  jistice  nor 

2^  !J^*'^  °°         ^^"^"^  extravagant  lauda- 

tK»»  am  inerdles.  ^  Some  one  has^ok^  of 


WILUAM  WORDSWORTH  loi 

VaeaniMy  as  «  stamping  "  through  the  fidds  of  Uterature, 
and  the  phrase  admifably  ptctufes  the  energetic  Philistin- 
ism of  the  critical  dogmatist  It  was  in  this  spirit  tiiat 
England  fiist  received  the  poetry  of  a  man  who  has  been, 
Ud  one  of  the  noblest  voices  in  the  literary  life  of  the 
eentuiy.  The  critics  simply  »  stamped  "  upon  his  writ- 
ings; and  not  merely  howled  derision  on  them,  but 
taught  his  countrymen  everywhere  to  receive  his  tuimt 
wifli  guflbwt  of  brutal  ridicule. 

In  considering  the  works  and  influence  of  Wordsworth, 
we  are  bound  to  take  fuU  cognizance  of  the  peculiarities 
of  his  own  character,  and  the  events  of  his  own  life. 
With  all  poets  it  is  necessary  to  do  this,  but  with  Words- 
Worth  most  of  aU,  because  everything  he  has  written  is 
deeply  coloured  with  his  own  individuality.   He  has 
written  littie  that  is  impersonal;  across  almost  every 
page  there  is  projected  the  huge  shadow  of  his  own  pe- 
culiar personality.  While  other  poets  have  gone  to  his- 
tory or  mythology  for  their  themes,  Wordsworth  found 
his  within  himself,  or  in  the  simple  surroundings  of  one 
Of  the  simplest  and  most  uneventful  of  Uves.   He  brooded 
over  the  "  abysmal  deeps  of  personality,"  and  from  them 
he  drew  the  inspiration  of  his  noblest  poetry.  Sometimes 
this  superb  egotism  of  Wordsworth  is  irritating,  and  often 
lie  becomes  tedious  by  attaching  enormous  importance 
to  the  very  slightest  influences  which  have  helped  to  form 
his  mmd,  or  the  most  trivial  incidents  which  have  com- 
posed its  record.    Tkf  Prelude,  which  is  one  of  his  long- 
est poems,  describes  the  growth  of  an  individual  mind, 
and  among  many  pmsages  of  profound  thought  and 
beauty,  contains  others  that  are  both  tedious  and  trivial, 
and  are  tedious  becau'se  they  are  trivial.   It  is  because 
Woidramtii  always  found  the  impulse  of  poetiy  withia 


102  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETBY 

himself  that  it  is  impossible  to  understand  his  writings 
without  a  clear  understanding  of  the  significance  of  his 
life.   He  boldly  declared  that  he  must  be  taken  as  a 
teacher  or  as  nothing.    He  was  no  fitful  singer  of  an  idle 
Jay;  he  believed  he  had  a  message  to  deliver,  as  truly  as 
ever  ancient  seer  or  prophet  had.    For  this  reason 
Wordsworth  fulfills,  more  perfecUy  than  any  other  mod- 
em poet,  the  ideal  conception  of  the  Bard.  According 
to  some  philologists,  "  minister "  and  «•  minstrel"  spring 
from  the  same  root,  and  convey  the  same  idea.  The 
true  poet  is  the  bard,  the  seer,  the  minister;  he  has  a 
Divine  ordination,  and  is  sacred  by  a  Divine  anointing; 
he  IS  a  consecrated  spirit,  selected  and  commissioned  for 
the  performance  of  a  Divine  behest.    This  was  Words- 
worth's view  of  the  function  of  the  poet,  and  he  endeav- 
oured to  fulfiU  it.   This  is  what  he  meant  when  he  said 
that  vows  V.  ere  made  for  him.  and  that  he  must  be  con. 
sidered  as  a  teacher  or  nothing.    This  is  the  secret  of 
that  prophetic  'irce  which  throbs  in  his  best  verses,  and 
which  gives  them  a  subtie  and  enduring  charm.  They 
are  the  expression  of  an  austere  and  separated  soul,  of  a 
spirit  who  dwells  amid  inaccessible  heights  of  devout 
vision,  and  speaks  with  the  accent  of  one  who  knows  the 
peace  of  lofty  and  satisfying  purposes. 

This  claim  of  Wordsworth's— to  be  considered  as  a 
teacher  or  as  nothing—was  a  new  claim  to  the  critics  of 
fifty  years  ago,  and  was  undoubtedly  one  cause,  and  per- 
haps the  main  cause,  of  their  prolonged  and  bitter  hos- 
tility. We  shall  see,  hereafter,  precisely  what  Wofds- 
worth  meant  by  the  claim,  and  how  he  has  built  up  a 
philosophy  which  is  its  justification.  But,  in  the  first 
instance  the  claim  was  based  almost  as  much  upon  the 
hteraiy  form  of  his  work  as  on  its  philosophic  qualittci. 


WILLIAM  WOfiDSWOBTH  108 


and  upon  a  theory  of  literary  composition  which  he  him- 
self has  stated  and  developed  in  his  prefaces  with  great 
fullness.  What  was  that  theory?  Briefly  put,  it 
amouated  to  this:  Wordsworth  complained  that  the 
commonly  accepted  theory  of  poetry  was  both  false  and 
vicious.  It  had  practically  invented  a  dialect  of  it::,  own, 
which  was  as  far  3S  possible  removed  from  the  ordinary 
dialect  of  the  common  people.  It  was  artificial  and 
stilted — the  cant  of  a  coterie  and  not  the  language  of 
ordinary  life.  Its  spirit  also  was  wholly  wrong  nnd  mis- 
taken :  it  had  lost  hold  on  common  Ufe,  and  scorned  it 
as  low  and  mean;  it  had  lost  hold  ri  Nature,  because  it 
did  not  know  how  to  speak  of  her  except  in  ancient 
rhetorical  phrases,  which  were  the  bronze  coinage  of 
poetry,  defaced  by  use,  and  whatever  might  once  have 
beai  true  or  just  about  them  was  now  depraved  and 
mutilated  by  unthinking  use.  Worf^sworth  Iicld  that 
there  was  sufficient  interest  in  common  life  to  insp-re  the 
noblest  achievements  of  the  poet,  and  that  Nature  must 
be  observed  with  unflinching  fidelity  if  she  was  to  be 
described  with  truth  or  freshness.  He  asks  why  abouU 
poetry  be 

A  history  only  of  deputed  tUngi, 
Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was  ? 
For  the  discerning  intellect  of  Man 
When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universr 
In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 
A  simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 
I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  arrives, 
Would  chant,  in  lonely  peace,  the  spousal  hour 
Of  this  great  consummation : — and,  by  wwds 
Which  speak  of  nothing  more  fhan  what  wt  ant 
Would  I  ardbse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep 
Of  Death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  win 


104  THE  MAKEB8  OF  ENGLISH  FOEIBT 

To  noble  nptunt;  iriiile  my  voice  proclaima 
How  exquisitely  dw  individual  mind 
(And  the  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  lets 
Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  world 
Ii  fitted  :--and  how  exquisitely  too  — 
Theme  tUs  but  Uttle  heard  of  among  men— 
The  cxlenHa  woild  U  fitted  to  the  ndnd. 

fa  tt«  noUe  passage  from  the  Recluse,  the  gist  of 
Wonbworth'a  peculiar  view  of  poetry  is  to  be  found 
He  announces  a  return  to  simplicity,  to  simple  themes 
and  smiple  language,  and  teaches  that  in  the  simplest 
sights  of  life  and  Nature  there  is  sufficient  inspiration 
for  the  true  poet   He  speaks  of  notliing  more  than 
what  we  are,  and  is  prepared  to  write  nothing  that  is 
not  justified  by  the  actual  truth  of  things.    He  sets 
himsdf  against  that  species  of  poetiy  which  finds  its 
impulse  and  its  public  in  theatrical  passion  and  mor- 
bid or  exaggerated  sentiment.    To  him  the  "  meanest 
flower  that  blows  can  give  thoughts  that  do  often  lie 
too  deep  for  tears,"  and  by  preserving  his  soul  in 
austere  simpUdty  he  aims  at  producing  a  species  of 
poetry  which  will  afTect  men  by  its  truth  rather  than 
lb  passion,  and  will  effect  even  the  lowliest  of  men 
because  it  is  expressed  in  the  plain  and  unadorned 
unguage  of  common  life. 

How  truly  Wordsworth  adhered  to  the  great  prin. 
aples  here  enunciated  his  life  and  work  declare,  but  it 
wiU  also  oe  apparent  that  his  theory  of  poetic  expression 
hopelessly  broke  down  after  a  short  trial.  It  may  be  said, 
indeed,  that  occasionally  even  his  theory  of  poetry  itself 

SSJ^k'^^T.  """""P*  *°      ^•'"P'^  he  becomes 

^dish,  and  m  his  selection  of  the  commonest  themes 

l»e  more  than  once  has  selected  themes  which  no 


WILLIAM  W0BD6W0BTH  lOS 

human  genius  could  make  poetic   In  the  main,  how- 
ever, the  principles  of  thought  which  he  enunciated  he 
strictly  observed  throughout  a  long  life,  and  his  noblest 
effects  have  been  produced  within  the  limitations  he 
invented,  and  which  he  was  contented  to  obey.  But 
when  we  consider  the  question  of  his  literary  expression, 
we  at  mce  perceive  that  he  does  not  use  the  language 
of  common  life,  nor  was  it  possible  that  he  should. 
The  vocabular/  of  the  educated  man  is  far  wider  than 
the  vocabulary  of  the  illiterate,  and  the  vocabulary  of 
ti»  gr«t  poet  is  usually  the  fullest  of  all.  Wordsworth 
simply  could  not  help  himself  when  he  used  fonm 
of  expression  which  the  plowman  and  pedlar  could 
never  have  used.   It  was  in  vain  that  he  said  :  "  I 
have  proposed  to  myself  to  imitate,  and,  as  iar  as  is 
possible,  to  adopt  the  very  language  of  men.   I  have 
taken  as  much  pains  to  avoid  what  is  usually  called 
poetic  diction  as  others  ordinarily  take  to  oroduce  it." 
In  poems  like  The  Idiot  Boy,  or  The  mm,  he  cer- 
tainly fulfills  this  purpose:  he  has  so  entirely  succeeded 
m  avoiding  poetic  diction  than  he  has  produced  verses 
which  by  no  stretch  of  literary  charity  could  be  called 
poetry  at  all  Wordsworth's  noblest  poetry  is  noble 
in  duect  contravention  of  his  own  theory  of  poetry, 
and  is  a  pertinent  illustration  of  the  futility  of  all 
such  theories  to  bind  men  of  real  genius.   His  theory 
that  true  poetry  should  be  merely  "  the  language 
really  spoken  by  men,  witii  metre  supencUed,"  and 
he  asks  us,  "  What  other  distinction  from  prose  would 
we  have?"   We  reply  that  from  the  true  poet  we 
expect  mdody  and  magic  of  phrase— the  gift  of  musical 
expression  which  can  make  w<mis  a  power  equal  to 
must^  in  producii^  exquisto  — ««frtiftni  on  tte  ear. 


lot  THE  lIAmS  OP  mrOLKH  POETRY 

!rl!l*SL?,  ^'^^^  *^  because 

t  eu  directly  prodiioe  noble  thooghts  and  passion,  in 
the  soul  If  Wordsworth  had  only  given  ^Ll^ 
guage  of  pr«,e  with  metre  superadded,  we  should  not 
be  ««dmg  his  psjges  to-day  with  ever-fresh  delight. 
It  IS  because  he  dtscudi  his  m  theory  of  poetic  ex- 
pr«...o„.  and  has  given  us  many  ^  ^  ^ 
^giuge  unmatched  for  purity  and  melody  of  ph«.^ 

of        cntiosm  with  which  he  was  pursued  for  nearly 
h"T^"  ?  "•^^  *°  bear  in  mind 

how  ^ubly  absurd  it  must  have  seemed  to  thosi  To 
wwe  tte  cnbcal  authorities  of  his  day.   And  it  must 
fko  be  recollected  that  Wordsworth  pL.ed  his  thZ, 
m  season  and  out  of  season.   The  temper  of  mind  whiA 
SSrJ;'"  S^*"       overweening  importance  to  the 
8U^t«it  mcidents  m  his  own  inteUectual  development 
made  h.m  also  bUnd  to  the  relative  values  of  his  ^ems. 
He  deliberately  chose  poems  like  77te  IdUt  Bw^ 
jvhjd,  were  written  in  hfs  worst  style-and  solemnly 
insisted  on  their  significance  as  iUustrative  of  his 
theory.  If  he  had  h«l  any  sense  of  humour,  he  would 

Worcbworth  was  singularly  deficient.  There  was  a  stiff- 
ness of  controversial  temper  about  him  which  refused 
any  P-ley  with  the  enemy.  The  consequence  w^^^ 
Ae  more  strenuously  Wordsworth  insSSi  on  the  value 

■HFwac  excellence  of  his  best  They  accepted  hH 


WILLIAM  WCOnSWOBfTH  Iff! 


wofrt  poent  u  Qrpical  of  hk  genius,  and  it  was  etgy  to 
tioa  diem  into  ridicule.  If  poetry  were,  indeed,  oafy 
prose  with  metre  superadded,  it  was  obvious  that  any 
prose-man  could  become  a  poet  at  will ;  and  the  facile 
rrtort  rose  to  tiie  lips  thitt  Wordsworth  had  justified  his 
theory  by  writing  prose  under  the  delusion  that  it  was 
poetry.  The  astonishing  thing  is  that  men  of  genuine 
critical  ability  were  so  slow  to  recognize  that  among 
»  ;ny  poems  wUcb.  were  little  better  dian  prose  cut 
up  into  metrical  lengths,  there  were  other  poena  of 
great  and  enduring  excellence,  which  the  greatest  poets 
of  all  time  might  be  proud  to  claim.  However,  a  truce 
has  kmg  since  been  called  to  sudi  oontentions.  No 
one  cares  much  to-day  what  particular  poetic  fads 
Wordsworth  may  have  advocated:  the  fact  that  has 
gradually  grown  clear  and  clearer  to  the  world  is  that 
in  Wonfawmrtfa  we  possess  a  poet  of  profound  originality 
and  of  supreme  genius,  a.^.d  his  greatness  is  generattjr 
recognized.  It  is  also  generally  recognized  that,  more 
than  any  other  modem  poet,  Wordsworth  has  expressed 
in  his  poems  a  n<rf>le  philosophy ;  and  it  is  to  tiie  study 
of  that  philosophy  that  I  invite  tiioae  who  would  read 
Wordsworth  with  a  seeii^;  eye  aad  aa  tiadentaiidtag 
heart 


THE  CONNECTION  BETWEEN  WCHIDS. 
WORTH'S  UIE  AND  HBtOM^* 

I HAVE  aln«l)r  irid  Hat  with  Wonhwonh  n». 
tt«  with  most  po«.thelifeoftl,^p;^2;X 

which  h.  loved  so  .vS^a^^kJ^^^Sr^ 

a. ... ..  Kolhhn  •*  thit  due 

■»  ttmptaUoii  htlf  so  dear 
«*« «IHch  ■iffed me  to  a  <lMiii»  fcM. 

Mturd  meditat  veness.  n,e  awe  of  Natm  ie~^ 
nave  been  a  feeling  early  develon«l  in  k-  *" 

M  w».  He  tdis^u,  ho^:t^i^„Li:r„t',' 

«ra.«l  into  a  ^^^"^  ttfw^ltll"." 


WOBDSWOBTH'S  LIFE  AND  HIS  FOEXBT  IM 

hastily  retreated,  with  the  feeling  tiut  he  had  invaded  a 
sanctuaiy.  But  in  other  pamges,  such  as  the  above,  the 
ides  left  upon  tiie  mind  k  ofa  sturdy  youth,  r^oidng  in 
hii  atrength  of  limb  and  iumm  of  fbot,MMl  tdd^a 

thoroughly  healthy  delight  in  outdoor  life.  He  has  the 
wholesome  blood  of  the  Cumberland  dalesman  in  his 
vdas,  and  loves  tiie  mountains  as  only  those  love  them 
whose  life  has  thriven  beneath  their  shadowi;  but  even 
as  a  boy  he  learned  to  feel  something  of  that  healing 
serenity  which  Nature  breathes  into  the  soul  that  loves 
her.  He  felt  that  -  whatever  of  highest  he  can  hope,  it 
ii  hen  to  promise ;  all  that  is  darie  ia  him  she  murt  ptnge 
into  purity ;  all  that  is  failing  in  him  she  must  strengthen 
into  truth ;  in  her,  through  all  the  world's  warfare,  he 
omst  find  his  peace  " ;  or,  to  quote  his  own  memorable 
words; 

Bat  m*s  htOi  Nttare  taoNd,  sad  bade  to  sedc 

For  other  agiudont.  or  be  calm  ; 
Hatk  dealt  with  me  as  with  a  torbnleat  itxvam. 
Some  nursling  of  the  monntaiiM,  wUeh  A»  bads 
Through  quiet  meadows,  after  he  has  learnt 
His  strength,  and  had  his  triumph  and  his  jox, 
Hb  dsspmit  covnt  ef  taandt  and  of  i^sa. 

The  firrt  noticeable  tiling,  therefore,  is  that  Words- 
worth was  a  true  "  nursling  of  the  mountains,"  and  Iht 
influence  of  natural  beauty  and  pastoral  life  was  one  of 
the  earliest  influences  which  shaped  his  mind.  He  had 
no  love  of  cities,  and  knew  little  of  them.  Whenhespofce 
of  them  it  was  witfi  rrfaftence  ud  oompMioa;  1m 
brooded 

Above  die  fierce  cmfedetate  slam 
Of  soRW,  baiikadood  nvwon 
MMdatlMwaBsofcidea, 


no  THE  IUKXR8  or  laroura  FOSTRY 


fcr  it  Mtaed  to  Wm  ttet  eWet  were  the  natural  hornet 
of  sorrow,  and  the  open  fields  the  true  abodM  of  pMce 

He  had  a  passionate  love  for  an  outdoor  life,  and  his  mind 
"rturaUy  lent  itself  to  that  deep  meditativeness  which  is 
•  co««o«  cli««:t«Wc  of  thoae  who  spend  nwuiy  hou« 
of  every  day  in  the  loneliness  of  Natum  Sltangely 
enough,  in  one  who  is  known  to  fame  as  a  man  of  letten 

L!rJt';"*?''f  ^^'^  "^'^  things  most  dif.' 

fictih  for  him  to  do,  to  the  very  end  of  hi.  life,  were  read- 
mg.  wntmg,  and  the  toil  of  literary  comporition.  When 
heisayoung  man  of  thirty-three,  he  writes  to  Sir  George 
Bewmont  Aat  he  never  has  a  pen  in  his  hand  for  five 
mmutes  without  becoming  a  bundle  of  uneasiness  and 
experiencing  an  insufferable  oppression.  •*  Niae-tentht 
of  my  verses,"  he  writes  forty  years  later.  "  have  been 

'S^^  T  iaJ^''  •  visitor  at 

Rydal  Mount  adced  to  Ne  Wordsworth's  study,  the  reply 
was  that  he  could  see  his  "library,  where  he  keeps  to 
books^ut  his  study  is  out  of  doors."  The  peculiarities 
Oius  described  are  the  typical  peculiariUes  of  the  sturdy 
dal^man  and  sud  in  many  respects  Wordsworth  was 
to  the  end  of  his  days.  When  he  described  the  peMUtS 
a«dfarmers  of  the  mountains,  it  was  no  fanciful  love  that 
atMed  him  to  them :  he  spoke  of  men  whom  he  thor- 
oughly uwtastood.  because  he  was  physicaUy  akin  to 
^..^f^"^y  fibre  of  his  mind,  his  intellectual  hon- 
MJ-  n»  independence,  his  power  of  contemplation,  his 

i  f  !r7r"°"^^*'°*"""**=''="*=y  the  vulgar  egoist, 
but  the  habitual  sufficiency  of  a  well-poised  and  self-re- 
liant nature-all  these  were  the  distinguishing  character- 
^  of  his  neighbours,  but  touched  in  him  with  a  loftier 
^rtt^  put  to  higher  purposes.  Even  in  his  face  and 
fiP»»-«n  the  ruggedness  of  the  one  and  Ae  firmness  and 


WORDSWORTH'S  UFE  AND  HIS  POETRY  111 


sturdiness  of  the  other — much  of  this  was  discernible.  It 
wai  a  figure  that  showed  worst  in  drawing-rooms,  at 
tiMMif^  conciously  alien  to  tilen;  •  ftee  that  seemed 

almost  vacant  to  the  nimble-minded  dwellers  in  cities,  bat 
which  glowed  with  true  illumination  and  nobility  among 
the  sounds  and  visions  of  his  native  countryside.  The 
mottkl  in  which  WorHtwortii  was  cwt  was  «  strong  one. 
His  nature  was  slow,  and  deep,  and  "^fffittftnt :  what  he 
was  at  thirty  he  practically  was  at  seventy,  save  that  there 
had  been  an  inevitable  stiffening  of  ideas,  and  an  equally 
inevUaUe  growth  of  sdf-rdlattt  suffideney. 

Let  any  one  try  to  picture  to  himself  the  leading  char- 
acteristics of  the  life  of  a  Cumbrian  dalesman,  and,  if  he 
pleases,  let  him  go  to  the  poems  of  Wordsworth  himself 
for  materials,  and  he  will  find  that  the  life  so  outlined 
will  be,  above  all  things,  independent,  self-respecting, 
and  self-sufficient,  frugal  without  parsimony,  pious  with- 
out formality,  and  simple  without  boorishness.  It  is  a 
iduriesonie  life  of  hnmUe  industries  and  simple  pleasures, 
and  such  a  life  was  not  merely  to  Wordsworth  the  ideal 
life,  but  it  was  an  ideal  which  he  himself  perfectly  fulfilled. 
And  let  any  one  think  again  of  the  sort  of  life  wh.ch 
fiMind  favour  with  tiie  poets  of  his  day,  and  tiie  sort  of 
life  they  themselves  lived — Byron  with  his  bitter  mis- 
anthropy, Shelley  with  his  outraged  sensitiveness,  Keats 
with  his  recoil  from  a  sordid  world  to  the  ideal  paradise 
of  Gredc  mythcdogy,  Moore  witii  his  cockney  i^itter. 
Coleridge  with  his  remote  nd  visionary  sfdendour — let 
him  think  of  this,  and  he  ^  .^ee  how  strange  a  thing  it 
was  to  such  a  world,  tha  a  Cumbrian  dalesman's  life 
diould  have  been  thrust  before  it  as  an  Ideal  hunuu  Ufe, 
and  that,  too,  by  a  man  of  rare  intellectual  powers  who 
had  himself  chosen  such  a  life  for  himself,  and  had  found 


118  THE  MAKERS  OP  ENWLIBH  POETRY 

In  it  tranquiUity  and  satisfaction.   In  that  age  there  were 
only  two  poets  who  had  shown  any  genuine  love  of 
JNature  in  her  daily  and  common  manifestations,  and  had 
written  veises  which  might  have  «  been  murmured  cS 
m  the  open  ah-."   These  were  Burns  and  Scott,  and  itfa 
noticeable  that  for  both  Wordsworth  felt  a  de;p  attiac 
tion.   In  both  there  is  a  supreme  healthfulness,  a  sense 
of^bust  enjoyment  in  fresh  air  and  simple  sights. 
Wh«,  Scott  desm-bes  Nature  it  is  always  with  a  true  eye 
for  colour,  and  Burns's  poems  touch  us  by  their  artlis 
rusticity  not  less  than  by  their  artistic  beauty.  Woi^ 
worth  himself  has  told  us  how  "  admirably  has  Burns 

f^t^^*°^f''l'"'r^''  °^  refer- 
ence to  hiniself  and  m  describing  the  condition  of  others  "  • 

anditwasthesimplehumannessoftheAyrshirefarmerthai 

^'^fmnl  anything 
^  simphaty  and  virtue  in  human  nature.  But  whw 
Wordsworth  difl««i  from  aU  other  poets  of  his  2 
that  he  had  a  conscious  ideal  of  what  human  life  mieht 
be  made  through  simplicity  of  desire  and  commun^ 
wrth  Nahire  and  he  resolutely  set  himself  to  the  fulfiU- 
ment  of  his  ideal.  EspedaUy  was  the  dalesman's  inde- 
pendence  and  self-sufficiency  marked  in  him.   He  knevt* 

^  "  ^'"^^'f-  in  his 

.^^^^u    *  ""P"''''  °^  And  so  he  writes : 

t^Zr  contradictory  as  they  seem,  must  go 

together,  manly  dependence  and  manly  independent, 
mnly  reliance,  and  manly  self-reliance."    And  again 
"Let  the  poet  finrt  consult  his  own  heart,  as  I  have 
done  and  leave  the  rest  to  posterity-to.  I  hope  an 

•n»eVritof  the«w«di  reveals  the  man,  and  the  man 


WORDSWORTH'S  LIFE  AND  HIS  POETRY  118 


so  revealed  could  only  have  thriven  in  a  region  where 
simplicity,  and  manliness,  and  rugged  honesty  wei« 
the  prime  virtues  and  common  heritage  of  daily  life. 

The  great  turning-point  in  the  life  of  Wordsworth  was 
the  year  1795,  when  his  sister  Dora  joined  him,  and  be- 
came henceforth  the  chosen  comrade  of  his  intellectual 
life,  not  kn  than  the  confidant  of  his  emotions.  The 
period  preceding  had  been  spent  somewhat  aimlessly, 
and  is  memorable  only  for  the  foreign  travel  Wordsworth 
had  indulged  in,  his  hopes  of  France,  and  his  subsequent 
disillusionment  and  despair.  Like  every  poet  of  his  day, 
save  Keats  and  Scott,  he  was  violently  affected  by  the 
French  Revolution,  and  was  caught  within  the  whirl  of 
its  frantic  fascination.  But  with  the  Reign  of  Terror  his 
hopes  of  wmld-wide  regeneration  perished,  and  a  sullen 
and  impenetrable  despair  fell  upon  him.  He  was  indeed 
slow  to  give  up  hope,  and  when  England  declared  war 
upon  France  he  flamed  out  in  indignant  denunciation  of 
what  seemed  to  him  a  disgraceful  outrage.  The  effect 
of  these  events  on  his  poetry  we  shall  best  see  when  we 
come  to  consider  his  patriotic  poems.  In  the  meantime, 
what  we  have  to  observe  is  that  in  1795  Wordsworth 
was  as  unsettled  as  man  could  well  be,  and  was  witiioot 
any  true  aim  or  work  in  life.  He  was,  to  quote  Mr. 
F.  W.  Myers,  "  a  rough  and  somewhat  stubborn  young 
man,  who,  in  nearly  thirty  years  of  life,  had  seemed  alter- 
natdy  to  idle  wfthout  grace  and  to  study  witiiout  ad- 
vantage, and  it  might  well  have  seemed  incredible  Hut 
he  could  have  anything  new  or  valuable  to  comr^unicate 
to  mankind."  It  was  from  this  state  of  lethargic  aimless- 
nest  that  Dora  Wonkwortfi  redeemed  him.  She  re- 
vealed to  him  the  tnle  bent  of  his  nature,  and  discovered 
to  him  his  true  powers.  ^  led  him  back  to  tiie  heal- 


114  THE  BIAZERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETBY 

ing  solitude  of  Nature,  where  alone,  as  she  jusUy  per- 
ceived, his  mind  could  find  a  fit  environment,  and  his 
powen  could  ripen  into  greatness.  She  understood  him 
better  than  he  understood  himself.  She  knew  that  he 
was  unfitted  for  public  life,  or  the  conduct  of  affaire,  but 
tb«t  there  was  in  him  that  which  might  be  of  infinite 
service  to  the  world,  if  fitting  opportunity  were  given 
fonts  development.  And  she  judged  that  nowhere  so 
wcU  as  m  the  beloved  environment  of  his  native  moun- 

?*"J!'*t!?*L.'^!  °'  ^'"^  *Wch  possessed 

him  be  kiQdled  into  a  Uving  and  animating  flame.  Some 
years  were  yet  to  elapse  before  he  finally  settled  at  Gras- 
mere,  but  they  were  years  passed  in  seclusion,  during 
Which  he  graduaUygave  himself  up  to  that  appointed 
task  of  poetic  toil,  to  which  he  felt  himself  divinely  con- 
secrated.  It  meant  for  him  a  practical  renunciation  of 
the  world.   He  had  but  the  scantiest  means  of  sub- 
•atence,  and  knew  weU  that  such  a  life  as  he  now  con- 
templated must  be  almost  a  peasant's  life,  lived  upon  a 
peasant's  frugal  fare  and  in  a  peasant's  mean  surround- 
ings.   When  he  turned  his  back  upon  great  cities,  and 
steadfestly  set  his  face  towards  the  English  mountains, 
he  resolutely  shut  the  door  upon  ail  hopes  of  briUiant 
worldly  success,  upon  all  the  natural  hopes  of  advance- 
ment in  life,  which  a  man  of  culture  and  education  may 
legitimately  entertain.  ' 

His  only  guide  in  this  most  difficult  hour  was  the  need 
and  impulse  of  his  own  nature.  He  felt  that  in  the  soU- 
tude  of  Nature  there  was  peace,  and  there  only  was  a  life 
Of  pU«n  hving  and  high  thinkin,;  possible.  All  he  knew 
tfiat  the  common  ideals  of  life  did  not  satisfy  him. 
fUKtbescomfuU/ exclaimed-. 


WOSD6WOBTH«  UtE  JLSD  HIS  FOETBT  115 


TItt  wltMiiit  man  unongtt « it  the  besit 
No  gnndtw  BOW  in  natnic  or  in  book 
Ddiglittaai 

He  had  learned  the  great  lesson  of  living,  not  for  things 
temporal,  but  for  tilings  eternal ;  he  had  set  hinsdf  above 

all  to  be  true  to  his  own  self,  and  he  had  the  rare  daring 
of  being  absolutely  faithful  to  the  voice  of  this  supreme 
conviction.  Any  greatness  which  attaches  to  Words- 
wordi's  character  directiy  springs  from  tiiis  q>iritual 
honesty  of  purpose.  The  noblest  qualities  of  his  poetry, 
all  the  qualities  indeed  which  difTerentiate  and  distinguish 
it,  a'ld  give  it  a  lofty  isolation  in  English  Uterature,  were 
^  natural  result  of  this  temper  of  spirit  and  method  <tf 
life.  There,  far  from  the  fevered  life  of  cities,  where  the 
free  winds  blew,  and  the  spacious  silence  taught  serenity ; 
iher^,  in  the  daily  contemplation  of  simple  Ufe  and 
nar-unl  beauty  among  his  own  mountains,  the  bonds  of 
custom  fell  from  Wordsworth's  spirit,  and  he  became  en- 
franchised with  a  glorious  liberty.  Strength  returned  to 
him,  clearness  and  resoluteness  of  spirit,  sanity  and  joy 
of  mind.  The  great  ksscm  which  he  was  consecrated  to 
expound  was  the  nobleness  of  unworldly  and  simple  life, 
and  such  a  lesson  could  only  be  learned,  much  less 
taught,  by  a  life  which  was  itself  infinitely  removed  trom 
tiie  vulgar  scramUe  for  wealtii,  and  the  insane  tiWrrt  for 
social  power.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it  is  to  Dora 
Wordsworth  that  England  owes  the  precious  gift  of  her 
brother's  genius.  She  recognized  it  when  he  himself  was 
dubious ;  she  taug^  him  how  to  collect  his  powers  and 
develop  them ;  she  encouraged  him  when  almost  every 
other  voice  was  hostile ;  and,  finally,  she  taught  him  that 
serene  confidence*  in  himself,  and  in  his  mission,  whidi 


m  THE  1UKEB8  OF  ENOLIBR  FOETKT 

made  him  say  to  his  few  friends,  when  the  public  con- 
tempt and  apathy  of  his  time  seemed  unhwtsal  and  un- 
bearable: "  Make  yourselves  at  rest  respecting  me ;  I 
speak  the  truths  the  work!  must  fed  at  last" 


xn 

SOME  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WORDS- 
WORTH'S POETRY 

WE  have  seen  how  Wordsworth  began  his 
poetic  career  with  certain  clearly  defined  and 
origimd  views  on  tiie  art  <rf^  poetic  exprtnUtn. 
If  he  had  been  a  less  self-contained  and  self-confidenr 
man,  he  would  hardly  have  dared  to  put  forth  these  views 
with  such  perfect  indifference  to  the  current  of  popular 
taste  which  prevailed  in  the  banning  of  tbe  century. 
But  the  truth  is  that  Wordsworth  was  not  a  student  of 
books.  De  Quincey  says  that  his  library  did  not  exceed 
three  hundred  volumes,  and  many  of  these  were  in  a  very 
incomplete  comlition.  He  was  imperfecti^  acquainted 
with  English  literature  as  a  whole,  and  almost  entirely 
ignorant  of  the  poets  of  his  own  day.  He  was  acquainted 
with  the  poetry  of  Scott  and  Southey,  but  he  thought  lit- 
tieofit  AtamoBwntwlieaBsmmwasdazdittgsodety, 
and  his  poems  were  selling  by  thousands,  Wordsworth 
had  scarcely  glanced  at  them ;  nor  is  there  any  sign  that 
the  tn^c  force  of  Byron  stirred  so  much  as  a  ripple  in 
tfie  calm  of  Wordswwth's  mind.  He  certainly  knew  lit- 
tle of  Shelley,  and  nothing  of  Keats.  The  only  poet  of 
his  time  who  had  anything  to  do  with  the  shaping  of  his 
taste  was  Coleridge.  From  Coleridge  he  noay  have 
teamed  somediittg  of  tiie  spdl  of  melody,  for  a  greator 
master  of  lyrical  melody  than  Coleridge  never  lived. 
But  in  the  maui  it  may  be  said  that  Wordsworth  stood 

U7 


m  THE  1CAK£B8  (»r  KHOLIBH  POETRY 

^.u^*.^  menton-he  copied  no  modds. 
With  the  «d,t«y  exception.  otLa^dJda,  which 

Vircd  by  a  re-perusal  of  Virgil  in  middle  life,  and  the 

Odejn  IntmaHons  of  Immortality,  which  owes  its  sug- 

jettion.  pwhaps,  to  certain  beautiful  lines  of  Hennr 

Vaughan.  the  Silurist,  it  i.  i«po«iWe  to  t«ce  the  orig,^ 

of  any  considerable  poem  of  Wordsworth's  to  liteivv 

UiWonlsw«th  aretwofold:we  find  that  both  the  great 
qud.t.«  and  the  great  defect,  of  W.  geniu.  «elibS% 
Asplayed  m  liu.  writings.   A  solitao^  man  po««ess<^ 

^^^S^^'^t''  importance  of  his 
tteoiy,  and  to  wnte  many  things  which  he  would  not 
have  wntten  had  his  view,  been  corrected  by  a  «^ 
generous  commerce  with  the  world.   Nothing  else  can 

JniS  ^^1^1  '^J^'T  ^'^"^^'"^  ^""^"^ 
«e  aUB  our  attention  to  such  a  poem  as  7»r/^/^<j., 

glee.     On  the  other  hand,  the  best  poem,  of  Wonb. 

^^"t^  "SL^'^"  ^  nourished 

mwhtoy  contemplation,  and  indifferent  tothehteiaiy 
standarcb  of  his  time.  Becau.e  he  owe.  hi.  inspi!^ 
not  to  literature  but  to  Nature,  he  is  able  to  rise  into  a 
r^ion  of  profound  thought  and  emotion,  to  which  the 
»«tel  of  hteiaryTguide.  could  not  have  conducted  him : 
and,  for  the  same  reason,  aU  that  heha.wfittenha.it. 
Sid^;'"  «^'-«»»«»the«ampofadon«i««,t 

a  ^m^'^'^  *°  characteristics  oi 

LJ^r''^"^  we  reaay  mean  «.  the  eharacterirtics 

riS '^a'  .  P^""'^ ""^"^^ emotional inteiert. 
Tn^gfim.  then^o  the  style  of  Wordsworth,  it  s^ 
to  be  geaefaB  r  admitted  th.t  the  period  i  ;hich  w! 


WOBDSWORIffB  VGMOXI  11» 


really  memorable  work  was  done  may  be  linrftod  to  abont 
twoity  yews  (iTpft-tSiS).  For  iHuH  Wonhwrntii  over- 

kxdced,  and  what  all  inventors  of  poetic  theories  and 
formula  have  always  overlooked,  is  that  the  art  of  poetic 
expression  is  an  indefinable  gift,  which  can  neither  be 
obtained  1^  obedience  to  any  niks  of  composition,  nor 
obscured  by  any  defects  of  literary  culture.   It  is  some- 
thing in  the  poet  which  is  spontaneous  and  natural,  which 
the  world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away.  The  absolute 
(uttneas  of  the  gift  makes  itself  fielt  at  once  in  the  verses 
of  an  imperfectly  educated  rustic  like  Bums;  and  the 
limitation  and  frequent  absence  of  the  gift  is  equaUy  ap- 
parent in  the  briUiant  lines  of  a  thoroughly  cultured  poet 
Uke  Tope.  When  we  speak  of  tiie  inspiration  of  the  poet 
we  use  no  vain  phrase ;  for  that  indefinable  charm  which 
dwells  in  the  poetry  of  a  true  poet  is  something  that  the 
poet  cannot  produce  at  will,  nor  retain  according  to  his 
frieasure.  It  is  a  gift  <^  illununation  and  power,  an  in- 
si»ratton  which  visits  him  irregularly,  a  sort  of  diviner 
soul  which  possesses  him  and  purges  him,  and  which  is 
as  independent  even  of  character  as  it  is  of  culture  or 
knowlcf^  The  poet  may,  indeed,  seek  to  fit  himself 
for  the  high  tasks  of  the  muse,  as  both  Milton  and 
Wordsworth  did ;  but  even  then  it  by  no  means  foUows 
that  when  the  lamp  is  cleansed  and  trimmed  iSbt  sacred 
flame  wifl  kindle.  And  in  no  poet  is  the  truth  of  these 
remarks  more  obvious  than  in  Wordsworth.  During 
these  twenty  years  the  genius  of  Wordsworth  was  in  its 
prime.    He  is  so  far  true  to  his  theory  of  poetry  that  he 
UMS  the  simplest  words,  and  often  chooses  the  hoodiest 
subjects ;  but  his  words  have  a  compactness,  a  melody, 
a  subtle  charm  ef  emotion,  which  make  them  enter  into 
the  secret  places  of  the  human  spirit,  and  ding  to  the 


190  THE  MAKERS  OP  ENGLBB  POBIBT 

««d  b  uin>l«tio«,  we  thriU  before  its  power.  The  v JI^ 
..mpUaty  of  the  wonb.  the  ri«e«ity  iSS^Tile  1^ 

>»>»  OK  gnjv  of  Wonkworth  poured  itsdr  out  lit-  . 

where  fte  culminatog  poia,  b  .eadTyh  Z 

«y«  are  at  their  height,  are  the  Unes  "  comoosed  uDon 
an  evening  of  extraordinan.  nrfendo«r  aJb^l  .f^^ 
the  autumn  of  1818.  The  peace  aad  nM^Z  Z 
««»et pervade  them.  HesayT: 

No  sound  is  uttered,  but  a  de^ 

And  solemn  harmonjr  pcnradet 
The  hoUow  vale  from  steep  to  atSHb 

And  penetrates  the  glades. 
•••••• 

And  if  there  bt  whom  brahta  das 

Afflict,  or  injuries  nmfl. 
Yon  hazy  ridges  to  didr  eyes 

Present  a  glorious  scale, 
CHmbing  suffused  with  sunny  air. 
To  stop— no  record  hath  told  where  I 
And  tempting  fiutcy  to  awend. 
^  wto  fanmerlal  qiirits  blend  ; 
Wngs  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play  • 
But  rooted  here,  I  «and  and  gue  ' 

THiirpnctic^  w^. 


WOBDSW0BTH9  PQRST  ttl 


Wordiworth  lived  long  and  wrote  much  after  Uiii 
■MmondMe  evmfa^  but  Mi  magfe  mad  wu  bcdBea. 

Occasional^  some  bright  gleam  of  that  "  light  which 
never  was  on  sea  or  shore "  falls  upon  his  later  poems ; 
but  it  is  intermittent  and  transient  He  still  teaches  and 
inttructi  us,  but  too  often  a  didactic  diyneH  has  suc- 
ceeded the  old  charm  of  manner,  and  he  touches  the  old 
string  without  the  old  music.  When  the  sun  sank  that 
night  over  Rydal  water,  all  unknown  to  himsdf  the 
"glory  of  hk  prime"  was  past  The  light  that  so  k»g 
had  lightened  him  had  once  more  flamed  up  into  a 
Divine  brilliance,  and  there  was  something  paUietically 
prophetic  <tf  his  own  future  in  the  concluding  lines  of  the 

"Us past:  As  virionary  sirieadear  Adss^ 
Aad  M^tt  i^HRQadMS  «Wi  hsr  dHidsfc 

When  we  adc  irint  ate  the  moral  chafaderiniai  of 

Wordsworth's  poetry,  the  same  difficulty  of  a  complete 
and  sufficing  answer  presents  itself.  He  excites  in  us 
many  emotions,  but  they  are  always  pure  and  ennobling 
cmc^kMS.  Those  yAo  sedc  for  coarse  and  violeat  ex- 
citement must  not  come  to  Wordsworth ;  they  must  go 
to  Byron.  The  Rev.  F.  W.  Robertson  has  truly  observed 
that "  in  reading  Wonbworth  the  sensation  is  as  the  sen- 
sattott  of  tiie  pure  water  drinker,  whose  palate  is  so  fefised 
that  he  can  distinguish  between  rill  and  riU,  river  and 
river,  fountain  and  fountain,  as  compared  with  tiie  obtuser 
sensations  of  him  who  has  destroyed  die  delicacy  of  hit 

difTerence  between  water  and  water,  because  to  him  all 
pure  things  are  equally  insipid."  There  is  a  gravity  and 
sweetness  in  Wordsworth's  poems  which  could  oni^ 


m  TE£  lOKEBS  OP  SNOLISH  fOETBY 
•pnng  from  a  noble  tMun,  ruled  by  tlw  ddly  vigilance 
of  duty,  and  dedicated  to  the  daily  contemplirtioii  of  loftv 

1^  "1;^  r  ''''  ^ 
■«  ■Ofdid  aim  and  debasing  passions,  and  he  calls  us  to 

a  higher,  a  simpler,  a  aemer  lile.   He  preaches  to  an 

age  corrupted  with  sensationalism  the  joy  that  Uet  in 

ideal,  the  attainable  valour  and  nobiUty  of 

nch«  the  old  Divme  lesson  that  "  a  man's  life  coositteth 

T«  .iL^L?";'^"'*  °^  ^'"^  ^^•^'^  possesscth." 

the  worldly  he  speaks  of  unworldliness ;  to  the  per- 
P^xed  of  trust;  to  the  victim,  of  vain  perturbation ^d 
^u.ct,  of  peace.  There  is  an  inefiable.  and  almort 
•ainUy  charm  about  the  voice  that  reaches  us  from  th^ 

s^t^r!*^"'"'*"*^'""""*^"-  Hcbreathestn 
sotation  and  encouragement  into  tired  hearts  and  fiulins 
.pints.   He  is  the  aposUe  of  peace,  the 
d«ns,ng  to  his  time.   He  has  nothing  new  or  startling 
to  «y :  he  „ngs  of  love  and  duty,  of  disciplined  desires 
and  purged  and  regulated  passion.,  but  he  n)eak.  as  one 


With  heart  as  calm  as  lakes  that  wmtp. 

In  frosty  moonlight  glistening. 
OrmouBtain-torrems,  where  they  creep 
Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep. 

To  their  own  far-off  munnuis  listeniaf. 

Well  does  Mr.  F.  W.  Myers  say.  -  What  touch  ha.  given 

L  ZL  '■"P^*^"  °^      unfathomable  p^ce? 

J^Aere  ^  from  them  a  tranquiUity  which  s<!=ms  to 

«wnxme  ooe.  KMrfiwIiicli  make.  u.  fed  « the 


WORDSWORTH'S  POETRY  IIS 


toil  and  pauion  that  we  are  disquieting  ounelves  in  vain  i 
that  we  are  travelling  to  a  region  where  these  things  diall 
not  be;  tliat  <  so  shall  immocktale  fear  leave  us,  and  inor- 
dinate love  shall  die.' "  We  cannot  explain  the  touch,  but 
there  it  is :  an  unearthly  and  profoundly  religious  charm 
which  breathes  upon  us  in  all  the  best  poems  of  Words- 
wortii.  It  is,  in  truth,  the  voice  of  a  great  prophet,  wbo 
speaks  words  which  are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 

We  might  illustrate  these  observations  by  copious  quota- 
tions from  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth,  but  perhaps  abet- 
ter mode  of  proof  is  to  quote  the  words  in  which  others, 
and  those  the  foremost  leaders  of  our  time,  have  described 
the  power  of  Wordsworth  over  them.  Ruskin  has  said 
tiiat  Wordsworth  is  <•  the  keenest-eyed  ct  all  nradem  poets 
for  what  is  deep  and  •rvential  in  Nature."  John  Stuart 
Mill  has  written  in  his  .mtobiography  :  "  What  made  his 
poems  a  medicine  for  my  state  of  mind  was  that  they  ex- 
IHressed  not  mere  outward  beauty,  but  states  of  feeling  and 
tiiottght  coloured  by  feding,  nder  the  exdteflWttt  of 
beauty.  I  needed  to  be  made  to  feel  that  there  was  real 
permanent  happiness  in  tranquil  contemplation.  Words- 
worth  taught  me  this,  not  only  witfaouttuming  away  from, 
but  wSh  greatly  increased  ii^erest  in,  the  common  feelings 
and  common  destiny  of  human  beings."  George  Eliot 
read  the  Pnludt  with  ever-fresh  delight,  and  declared: 
*•  I  never  before  met  so  many  of  my  own  fedings  ese- 
pwsscd  just  as  I  shouM  Uke  them."  It  is  trae^  indeed, « 
Matthew  Arnold  has  said,  that 

Wordsworth's  eyes  avert  tbdrlm 
From  half  of  human  Cite, 

but  that  is  simply  saying  that  Wordsworth's  poetry  has 
the  defects  of  its  qualities.  He,docs  not  plumb  the  depths 


m  THE  jiAKw  <»  ramjBg  rorar 

over  such  v.o-^*j^'.%x^*tss: 

to««r  wild  h«  given  hm,  a  ,peci„  of  p,;c8thood  ia 

worth  do«  „„,  appeal;  but  as  life  p«  on,  and  .tX 
^  glow  fedes,  men  find  more  and  more  how  dc«, 
wdl  of  consolation  Uw,  i,  in  tte  wriUngs  of  a  poetTho 
s-ns  of  nothing  more  than  what  «  .^..dTI^ 
"fleeted  voice  of  Worisworth  reaches  us  in  miiL^ 

To  some  naturer,  of  cou  «  Woriswrtl  wffl  ».«,  «. 
t^Jt^T'^  ""^  I-™  but  an  "  eS 

ipoapoadyltam.  Three  great  writere  of 


WOBDSWORmS  POETBY  IM 


own  day,  and  only  three,  knew  him  for  what  he  wai : 
Scott  honoured  him,  Cokridge  loved  him,  and  Southcy 
praised  him  in  tiie  fiunoos  wordi  tint  diere  never  wai,  and 
never  wilt  be,  a  greater  poet.  We  cannot  accept  thli 
brotherly  exaggeration  as  wholly  true,  but  clearly  Southey 
k  far  nearer  the  truth  than  Swinburne  or  Macaulay. 
And  the  mora  Wordsworth's  writings  are  read,  the  more 
distinctly  is  it  felt  that  if  he  is  not  the  greatest  of  poeti, 
there  is  no  poet  who  has  given  us  a  body  of  thought  and 
emotion  more  humanizing,  more  wholesome,  more  inspir- 
ing in  its  tendency  .  That,  at  lent,  is  die  aim  that  Words- 
wovtii  set  before  himself  in  his  memorable  criticism  of  hit 
poems  written  to  Lady  Beaumont  in  1807.  -  Trouble 
not  yourself,"  he  says, "  about  their  present  reception ;  of 
tAuX  moment  is  that  compared  witii  what  I  trust  k  their 
<|ettiiiy?  To  console  the  afflicted ;  to  add  sunshine  to 
daylight,  by  making  the  happy  happier ;  to  teach  the  young 
and  the  gracious  of  every  age  to  see,  to  think,  and  feel, 
and  feerefore  to  become  more  actively  and  securely  vir- 
tuous,— this  is  their  office,  which  I  trust  they  will  faitlifully 
perform,  long  after  we  (that  i*",  all  that  is  mortal  of  us)  are 
mouldered  in  our  graves. "  Never  have  the  essential 
moral  duuitcterkttics  of  Wordsw^  rth's  poetry  been  set 
for&  with  truer  insight  and  completeness  than  in  this 
prophetic  passage,  written  in  the  days  when  no  indication 
of  fame  had  reached  him,  and  when,  with  some  few 
honouraUe  excepdom,  rignal  contenqfit  was  awarded  him 
by  the  blind  and  undisceming  critics  who  attrmptcd  to 
cUrect  the  ta^  and  cultuie  <tf  titetrage.. 


XIII 

WORDSWORTH'S  VIEW  OF  NATURE 
AND  MAN 

IHA  VE  spoken  of  Wordsworth  as  having  a  new  and 
original  philosophy  to  unfold,  a  new  and  individual 
v.ew  of  Nature  to  expound:  what  then,  was  that 
view  ?   The  love  of  Nature  is  to  be  found  in  all  the  Eng- 
lish poets,  from  Chaucer  downward.   In  Wordsworth's 
own  day  both  Byron  and  Shelley  were  writing  poems 
thoroughly  impregnated  with  the  love  of  Nature    If  we 
ehminated  from  English  poetry  all  the  passages  which  deal 
w^the  charm  and  glory  of  Nature,  we  should  have 
d^ed  all  that  is  sweetest,  freshest,  and  most  char- 
J^^c  m  .t^  What  IS  there,  then,  in  Wordsworth's 
towtment  of  Nature  which  differs  from  the  poetry  of 
those  who  have  gone  before  him  ?  It  is  perilous  to  be 
too  positive  where  many  fine  and  deUcate  distinctions  are 
\u"*;.r^'''"^  generally,  it  may  be  said  that 
Wwdsworth  differs  from  aU  other  poets  in  the  stress  he 
pute  upon  the  moral  Influences  of  Nature.   To  Byron 
Nature      the  great  consoler  in  the  hour  of  his  revoh 
Jgamst  the  folly  of  man.  and  he  found  in  her.  not  mT^y 
hospitality  but  a  certain  exhilaration  which  fed  the  fierce 
defiam*  of  h«  heart,  and  armed  him  with  new  strength 
for  the  fight.  ToSheUey,Natureismoreofape«oni1ty 
than  to  Byron,  but  it  is  an  ethereal  and  lovel^pr^ce 

«»  oRosiiig  aa  utoxtcating  magic  on  the  mind.  But 

198 


VIEW  OF  NATURE  AND  MAN  ItT 

wMi  Wordsworth  tiie  idea  of  the  living  penonality  of 

Nature  is  a  definite  reality.  He  loves  her  as  he  mig^t 
love  a  mistress,  and  cc  iimunes  with  her  as  mind  may 
commune  with  miitd.  To  him  ihe  is  a  vast  embodied 
Thought,  a  Presen*  o  not  merely  (upable  of  inspiring  de- 
lightful ardour,  but  of  e'ev^atiag  » lan  by  noble  disdidine. 
Take,  for  instance,  his  Honnei  n-i  Calais  Beach : 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  ftw; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration ;  *he  bfoad  mbi 

It  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea: 
Listen !  the  Mighty  Being  is  awake. 
And  doth  with  His  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  Hke  dionder— everiasdi^ly. 

Or  take  his  conception  of  human  life  in  the  presence  of 
the  everhtstingness  of  Nature : 

Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  bdag 
Of  the  eternal  silence. 

Or  ponder  the  spirit  of  the  well-known  verses : 

The  outward  sfa^ws  of  sky  and  earth. 

Of  hill  and  valley  he  has  viewed ; 
Aad  inpidMS  of  deeper  bbdi 

Hmm  I  *  WW  AA  KWik  tn  nHtiMl^ 

Wmmww  Wm«  Iw  Mim  in  ■VnHWIiB* 

1a  comnen  things  that  round  us  lie 

Sooie  laadom  truths  can  he  impart 
The  harvMk  cm  a  quiet  eye 

Or  mark  how  he  reph'es  to  the  restlessness  of  life  which 
is  divorotd  fitMB  lubitml  iaieicoune  wiUi  Ntture: 


1»  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


Think  you.  'mid  aU  this  mighty  mm 

Of  Aiogt  fefcver  speaking. 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come. 

But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 

Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  iwipifttr 

That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
Into  a  wise  passivenesa. 

And  hark!  how  blithe  the  Aimtle  wb§$i 

He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher ; 
Come  forth  into  the  light  oTdiiiift.. 

Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

One  impulse  of  a  vernal  wood 

May  teach  you  more  of  man. 
Of  moral  evil  and  ofpiod. 

Than  all  the  sages  can. 

In  these  venes  what  most  strikes  us  is  tiie  vividnen 
Wordsworth's  conception  of  Nature  as  endowed  with  per- 
sonality—" the  mighty  Being,"  and  vhe  emphasis  with 
which  he  declares  that  Nature  is  a  teacher  whose  wisdom 
we  can  learn  if  we  wiU,  and  without  which  any  human 
life  is  vain  and  incomplete. 

An  artist,  who  is  also  a  teacher  of  ait,  has  laid  down 
tile  rule  that  in  painting  landscape  what  we  want  is  not 
the  catalogue  of  the  landscape,  but  the  emotion  of  the 
arUst  in  painting  it.  This  is  the  artistic  theory  of  the 
Impressionist  school,  and  it  may  be  said  that  in  this 
sense  W<mbwordt  was  an  impressionBt  Such  a  poet  as 
Thomson  gives  us  in  his  Seasons  the  mere  catalogue  of 
Nature,  and  as  a  catalogue  it  is  excellent.  If  the  effects 
of  Nature  were  to  be  put  up  to  auction,  no  catalogue 
could  serve  us  better  than  Thomson's  Seasons.  But 
what  Thomson  cannot  give  us,  and  what  Wordsworth 
does  give  us,  is  the  improsion  which  Natuie  pnkhioet 


VIEW  OF  NATURE  AND  MAN 


1S9 


on  his  own  spirit.  He  teaches  us  that  between  man  «uid 
Nature  there  is  mutual  consciousness  and  mystic  in- 
tercourse. It  is  not  for  nothing  God  has  set  man  in 
this  world  of  sound  id  vision :  it  is  in  tiie  power  ot 
Nature  to  penetrate  his  spirit,  to  reveal  him  to  himself, 
to  communicate  to  him  Divine  instruction,  to  Uft  him 
into  spiritual  life  and  ecstasy.  The  poem  of  Tke  Dt^odiU 
is  simply  a  piece  of  iov^  word-painting  till  we  leadi 
the  Uius — 

Tliejr  flash  upon  the  inward  eye. 
Which  is  the  bite  of  M^ude : 

and  it  is  in  those  lines  the  real  spirit  xA  the  poem  qwakk 
There  was  something  in  that  sight  of  the  daffodils,  danc- 
ing in  jocund  glee,  that  kindled  a  joy,  an  intuition,  a 
hope  in  the  poef  s  mind,  and  through  the  vision  an  undy- 
ing impulse  of  delight  and  illumination  reached  him. 
Wordsworth  does  not  indulge  in  the  "  pathetic  fallacy." 
He  does  not  take  his  mood  to  Nat  ^.e  and  persuade  him- 
sdf  diat  she  reflects  it ;  but  he  goes  to  Nature  with  an 
open  mind,  ard  leaves  her  to  create  die  mood  in  him. 
He  does  not  ask  her  to  echo  him ;  but  he  stands  docile  in 
her  presence,  and  asks  to  be  taught  of  her.  To  persuade 
omsdves  that  Nature  mirrors  our  mood,  giving  gray 
skies  to  our  grief,  and  the  piping  <rfgkd  birds  in  answer 
to  the  joy-bells  of  our  hope,  is  not  to  take  a  genuine  de- 
Ught^in  Nature.  It  is  to  make  her  our  accomplice  rather 
tiian  our  instructress;  our  mimic,  not  our  mistress. 
Many  poets  have  done  this,  and  nothing  is  commoner  in 
current  poetry.  The  originality  of  Wordsworth  is  that 
he  never  thinks  of  Nature  in  any  other  way  than  as  a 
Mighty  Presence,  before  wIkmo  he  stands  silent,  like  a 
faithful  high-priest,  who  waits  in  solemn  **pntrtfMi  fSnr 
the  whisper  of  fnlightmmwit  uA  iriidom. 


180  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ESQUSa  POETRY 


Let  us  turn  to  one  of  his  earliest  poems,  the  Liius 
Composed  at  Tintem  Abbey,  July  13, 1798,  and  we  shaU 
see  how  clearly  defined  in  WordsworUi's  mind  this  con- 
ception of  Nature  was,  even  at  the  commencement  of  his 
career.  Wordsworth  was  not  yet  thirty,  and  had  not  yet 
recognized  hit  true  vocation  in  life;  but,  neverthelew, 
all  that  he  afterwards  said  about  Nature  is  uttered  in  out- 
hne  in  these  memorable  lines.  He  speaks  of  the  "  tran- 
quil restoration,"  the  sensations  sweet,  "  felt  in  the  blood, 
and  fdt  d\oag  tiie  heart,"  which  NatuK  had  aheady 
wrought  in  him.   He  has  peace, 

While  widi  ui  eye  made  quiet  by  the  powe 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  MM^, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

The  mere  boyish  love  of  Nature,  when  the  sounding 
cataract  haunted  him  like  a  passion,  he  characterizes  as 
mie  of  the  "  glad  animal  movements  "  of  the  boy ;  now 

he  has  perceived  how  Nature  not  merely  works  del^^ 
in  the  blood,  but  flashes  illumination  on  the  soid. 

For  I  have  learned 
To  kdc  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the^mnn 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftenliaica 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 
Nor  harsh  nor  gratiiqr>  dMMq[h  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughu ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  somethiny  Car  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whote  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air. 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 
AoMtioa  and  a  ^irlt.  that  impeb 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 
And  rolls  through  all  things.  Therefore  am  I  still 


VIEW  OF  NATUBE  ASD  MAN  Itl 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 

And  mountains ;  and  of  aU  that  we  behold 

Frooi  this  round  earth;  aiidaraDtlMinvhtr  worid 

or  ejrc  and  ear,  both  what  tfwjr  half  create 

And  what  perceive ;  weU  pleased  to  recognise 

In  Nature  and  the  language  of  the 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thonghu,  the  nurse, 

Ttegoide,      guardiaa  of  my  heart,  and  souL 

OTaUaijrmonlbdiv. 

We  have  only  to  compare  this  passage  with  such 
poems  as  Byron's  address  to  the  Ocean,  or  Shelley's  Ode 
to  the  West  Wind,  to  see  how  great  is  the  difference  be- 
tween Wordsworth's  view  of  Nature  and  theirs,  and  how 
profiwindly  original  Wordsworth's  view  is.  There  is  a 
subtle  power  in  WordswortJ.'s  verses  which  seems  to 
breathe  the  very  spirit  of  Nature,  and  to  interpret  her. 
We  entirely  lose  sight  of  the  revealer  in  the  revelation  • 
we  pass  out  of  the  sphere  of  Wordsworth's  mood  int(I 
the  very  mood  and  heart  of  Nature ;  we  feel  the  presence 
of  something  deeply  interfused  through  aU  the  inanimate 
world.  The  worid  indeed  is  no  longer  dead  to  us,  but 
animate,  and  we  feel  the  spirit  and  motion  of  Nature  like 
the  actual  contact  of  a  living  and  a  larger  soul.  Words- 
worth is  thus  not  so  much  the  poet  as  the  high-priest  of 
Nature,  and  the  feeling  he  creates  in  us  is  not  so  much 
delight  as  worship. 

One  effect  of  this  ardent  love  of  Nature  in  Wordsworth 
•  that  he  excels  aU  other  poets  in  the  fidelity  of  his  de- 
•eriptions,  the  minute  accuracy  of  his  observation  of 
natural  beauty.  His  eye  for  nature  is  alwqv  ficsk  and 
true,  and  what  he  sees  he  describes  with  aa  admirable 
realism.  His  {ense  of  form  and  colour  is  also  perf^ect 
Md  ia  aoHdat  *  l»e  so  gieat  aa  artist  as  in  his  power  of 
«myiBg  ia  afiwMttiitaaMritnithofiiittUagslia 


182  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


sees.  When  he  speaks  of  the  voice  of  the  stock-dove  as 
"  buried  among  trees,"  he  uses  the  only  word  that  could 
completely  convey  to  us  die  idea  of  seclusion,  the  remote 
depth  of  greenwood  in  which  the  dove  loves  to  hide 
herself.  The  star-shaped  shadow  of  the  daisy  cast  upon 
the  stone  is  noted  also  with  the  same  loving  accuracy, 
and  can  only  be  the  result  of  direct  observation.  Noth- 
ing esaqped  his  vigilance,  and  his  sense  of  sound  w»  as 
perfect  as  his  power  of  vision.  The  wild  wind-swept 
summit  of  a  mountain-pass  could  hardly  be  better 
painted  than  in  this  word-picture : 

The  single  sheep,  and  that  one  blasted  tree, 
Aad  the  Ueak  nmic  of  that  old  time  mO. 

We  hear,  as  we  read  these  lines,  the  wind  whistling 
tiirough  the  crevices  of  the  stone  walls  of  Westmordaad, 
and  by  the  magic  of  this  single  phrase  we  feel  at  once 
the  desolation  of  the  scene,  and  we  catch  its  spirit  For, 
after  all,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  accurate  de- 
scription of  itsdf  to  create  emotion  in  ib  ;  it  is  tiie  emotton 
of  the  poet  we  need  to  interpret  for  us  the  spirit  of 
what  he  sees,  and  this  is  just  what  Wordsworth  does  for 
us.  He  scorned  what  he  called  taking  an  inventory  o! 
Nature,  and  said  that  Nature  did  not  permit  it  His 
comment  on  a  brilliant  poet  was :  "  He  should  have  left 
his  pencil  and  note-book  at  home,  fixed  his  eye  as  he 
walked  with  a  reverent  attention  on  all  tiiat  surrounded 
him,  and  taken  all  into  a  heart  that  could  understand 
and  enjoy.  He  would  have  discovered  that  while  much 
of  what  he  had  admired  was  preserved  to  him,  much  was 
abo  moat  wtedy  oUiterated;  Oat  vAudi  remained— tlie 
picture  surviving  in  his  mind — would  have  presented  tlie 
ideal  and  essential  truth  <d  tiie  scene,  ami  done  to  in  a 


VIEW  OF  IfAXURE  AND  MAN 


13S 


large  part  by  discarding  much  which,  though  in  itself 
striking,  was  not  characteristic."  This  was  Wordsworth's 
own  method.  Though  unsurpassed  in  the  fideUty  of  his 
observatKMi,  he  never  rdies  on  obiervatim  aloiie  tor  hk 
interpretation  of  Nature.  When  he  has  observed  he 
allows  the  picture  of  what  he  has  seen  to  sink  quietly 
into  the  memory,  and  he  broods  above  it  in  silent  joy. 
The  resah  is  that  when  the  hour  comes  to  omiUne  bk 
materials  in  a  poem,  they  are  already  sifted  for  us,  and' 
are  saturated  with  sentiment.  Many  of  the  noblest  pas- 
sages in  Words  wot  th  might  be  thus  described  as  obser- 
vatioa  touched  with  emc^on ;  unusually  accurate  obsar- 
vation  toudied  with  the  finest  and  purest  emotion. 

Another  direct  efTect  of  Wordsworth's  view  of  Nature 
m  his  view  of  man.  He  began  life  with  the  most  ardent 
hopes  for  the  moral  rqjcneration  of  manldnd,  aikl  it  was 
only  with  bitter  reluctance  he  renounced  them,  in  the* 
frantic  recoil  which  the  excesses  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion produced.  From  the  bitterness  of  that  trouble,  as 
we  have  seen,  he  was  rescued  by  his  sister  Dora,  aad, 
going  back  to  the  calm  of  Nature,  he  found  a  truer  view 
of  mankind.  He  believed  that  he  had  put  his  finger  on 
the  real  secret  of  the  unsatisfied  passions  and  misery  of 
mankmd  when  he  taught  that  man,  divorced  from  Itvii^ 
intercourse  with  Nature,  could  not  but  be  restless  and 
unhappy.  Man  was  set  in  this  world  of  Nature  because 
tiie  worid  ot  Nature  was  necessary  to  his  well-being,  nor 
were  spiritual  sanity  and  ddif^t  pocsil^  witiiotrt  oontad: 
with  Nature.  In  this  view  he  was  confirmed  when  he 
found  that  in  the  remote  dales  of  the  English  Lake 
District  htunap  life  attained  a  robust  virtue  denied  to  the 
dwellefB  ia  great  dties.  He  saw  that  the  rwr  ntlalt  of  « 
mSfyktl^  aad  happjrlife  wore  finr, and HHit tlMy ««• 


m  THE  MAXSB8  OP  SNOUBH  FOEIBT 


found  in  the  greatest  profwion  when  life  was  simplest 

and  contact  with  Nature  was  habitual  Hk  frith  in  ima" 
kind  returned,  and  man  again  became 

An  object  of  delight, 
Of  pure  imagination  and  of  love. 

Set  in  his  proper  environment  of  Nature,  breathing 
dear  air,  lookittg  <m  refreshing  visiom  of  glory  and  de- 
light, Wordsworth  saw  that  man  was  at  his  best,  and  he 
regarded  him  with  genuine  reverence.  His  panacea  for 
the  healing  of  his  country  was  a  return  to  Nature,  and  it 
w  in  pathetic  reproadi  he  wrote: 

The  werid  is  too  orach  widi  «•;  late  and  teom 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  ; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  I 

We  have  given  away  our  hearts,  a  sordid  boonl 

There  is  no  poet  who  shows  so  great  a  reverence  for 

man,  as  man.  Lowliness  and  poverty  cannot  hide  from 
him  the  great  qualities  of  heart  and  character,  which  the 
selfish  and  unthinking  never  see.  He  sings  the  homely 
sanctities  and  virtues  cX  tiie  po«r.  Human  nature  is  to 
him  a  sacred  thing,  and  even  in  its  frailest  and  humblest 
forms  is  regarded  with  gentleness  and  sympathy.  And 
the  real  source  of  Wordsworth's  reverence  for  man  lies 
in  his  reverence  for  Nature.  It  is  tiie  constant  and  purg- 
ing vision  oS  Nature  which  enables  him  to  perceive  how 
mean  are  the  cares  with  which  those  who  are  rich  burden 
themselves,  and  how  noble,  and  even  joyous,  men  can  be 
under  the  rtress  of  peniay  and  li^ur,  if  tfaqr  let  Nature 
lead  them  and  exalt  them. 

The  spirit  of  this  teaching  is  nowhere  morj  happily 
expressed  than  in  the  lovely  lines  which  „cur  in  the 
coodusioa  d  ^  Sti^        Emtef  Bmi^UmOutie, 


VIEW  OP  NATURE  AND  MAN 


Love  had  he  fonod  in  hots  whete  peer  mea  Me; 

His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  riOi, 
The  silence  which  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sieep  that  is  unonc  the  loaely  MUs. 

These  were  the  agencies  which  had  softened,  soothed, 
and  taaoed  tiie  fiery  heart  of  Clifii»d,aiid  it  wai  by  tiie 
same  simple  mintfttration  he  hinidf  had  been  led  iato 

settled  peace. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  doubted  whether  it  is  possible  to 
understand  the  full  significance  of  Wordsworth's  poetry . 

in  any  other  environment  than  that  in  which  it  was  pro- 
duced. So  at  least  thought  James  Macdonell,  when  he 
wrote :  "  What  blasts  of  heavenly  sunshine,  as  if  blown 
direct  from  the  gates  of  some  aioterdy  Puritan  Fuadisel 
What  gusts  of  air,  touched  with  the  cold  rigour  of  the 
mountain  peak!  What  depth  of  moralizing,  touched 
with  the  hues  of  a  masculine  gloom  I  What  felicity  of 
diction,  dotting  in  immortal  brevity  o(  phrase  the  deqn 
est  aspirations  of  the  brave  !  Never  did  I  read  Wordb- 
worth  with  such  full  delight,  because  never  had  I  so 
charged  my  mind  with  the  spirit  of  the  mountains  which 
were  the  food  <tf  ha  souL" 

What  Burns  did  for  the  Scotch  peasant,  Wordswortb 
has  done  for  the  .  lepherds  and  the  husbandmen  of  Eng- 
land. But  he  has  done  more  than  illustrate  the  virtues 
of  a  dass:  from  the  study  of  peasant  life,  set  amid  Utt 
splendour,  and  vivified  by  the  influence  ot  Nature,  he  at- 
tained a  profound  faith  in  man  himself,  and  a  reverent 
understanding  of  the  inherent  grandeur  of  all  human  life. 


XIV 


WORDSWORTH'S  PATRIOTIC  AND 
POLITICAL  POEMS 

AN  excellent  and  eloquent  critic,  ProfcHor  Dowden, 
has  spoken  of  Wordsworth's  "  uncourageoul 
elder  years,"  and  has  founded  the  phrase  upon 
this  sentence  of  Wordsworth's :  "  Years  have  deprived  me 
d  courage,  in  the  sense  wiuth  the  word  bean  when  ap- 
plied  by  Chaucer  to  the  animation  of  birds  in  spring-time." 
A  little  reflection  will,  I  think,  show  that  this  confession 
of  the  poet  hardly  justifies  the  phrase  of  the  critic 
Neverthc.  it  is  a  general  impression  diat  Wonkworth 
began  life  ;Ui  ardent  Radical,  and  ended  it  as  a  staunch 
Conservative.  If  this  were  all,  the  phrase  might  be  al- 
lowed to  pass,  but  the  impression  such  a  phrase  creates  is 
tint  Wor^worth  not  merely  renounced  his  early  hopes 
and  creed,  bu:  grew  apathetic  towards  the  great  human 
causes  which  irred  his  blood  in  youth.  Browning's  fine 
poem  of  the  Lost  Leader  has  often  been  applied  to 
Wordsworth,  and  it  has  been  assumed  in  many  quarters, 
with  what  degree  of  truth  we  do  not  know,  that  Browning 
had  Wordsworth  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  that  power- 
ful and  pathetic  indictment.  However  this  may  be, 
noUiing  is  commoner  tiian  the  assumption  that  one  result 
of  Wordsworth's  remote  seclusion  from  the  stress  of  life 
was  that  he  lost  interest  in  public  affairs,  and  cared  little 
for  the  great  movements  of  his  day.  Than  this  assump- 
tion notiiing  can  be  fobar.   To  say  nothing  of  tiw  prate 

m 


PATBIOnC  AKD  POLITICAL  POSMB  187 


writings  of  Wordsworth,  few  poete  have  given  us  a  larger 
body  of  patriotic  poetry,  and  poetry  impngaated  with 

politics,  than  Wordswort  Perhaps  it  is  because  the 
finest  poems  of  Wordsworth  are  those  that  deal  with  the 
emottmis  of  man  in  the  presence  of  Nature,  that  com- 
parativdy  little  interest  attaches  to  his  patriotic  poetry. 
Such  poetry,  however,  Wordsworth  wrote  throughout 
his  life,  and  if  he  was  not  altogether  a  political  force,  it  is 
quite  certain  that  he  never  ceased  to  take  a  keen  interest 
in  pditics.  He  had  national  aims,  and  was  full  of  the 
most  ardent  love  of  country.  It  may  be  well  to  recall  to 
the  minds  of  my  readers  this  aspect  of  Wordsworth's 
life  and  influence. 

^  s  regards  the  eariier  part  of  his  life,  WmrdsworUi  has 
left  an  abundant  record  of  his  thoughts  in  his  prose  writ- 
ings.  No  poet,  save  Milton,  has  written  with  so  large  a 
touch  upon  national  affiurs,  and  has  displayed  so  lofty  a 
sjMrit   His  prose  does  not  indeed  glow  wi^  so  iateme  a 
passion,  nor  is  it  so  gorgeous  as  Milton's,  but  it  is  ani- 
tnated  and  inspired  by  the  same  spirit.    And  in  its  more 
panionate  passages  something  of  Milton's  pomp  of  style 
is  discernible— something  of  his  overwdidmin^  force  of 
language  and  cogency  of  thought.    Wordsworth's  tract 
on  the  Convention  of  Cintra  belongs  to  the  same  class  of 
writings  as  Milton's  Areopagitica,  and  while  not  its  equal 
in  sustained  splendour  of  diction,  it  is  distinguiriied  by 
the  same  breadth  of  view  and  eager  patriotism.  Words- 
worth has  himself  defined  excellence  of  writing  as  the 
conjimction     reason  and  passion,  and,  judged  by  this 
tes^  Wordsworth's  ouasional  utterances  on  politics  attain 
a  rare  excellence.   It  would  have  been  singular  in  such 
an  age  if  any  man  who  possessed  emotion  enough  to  be 
a  poet  had  nothing  to  say  upon  the  great  events  which 


138  THE  MAKERS  OF  ERGUBH  POETRY 


were  altering  the  map  of  Europe.  Wordsworth  from 
the  firat  never  concealed  his  opinions  on  these  subiecti. 
He  went  as  fiur  w  he  oould  in  apologisittg  for  tiie  erron 

of  the  French  Revolution,  when  he  said  truly  that 
"  Revolution  is  not  the  season  of  true  liberty."  TliC 
austen^  which  characterized  his  whole  life  characterizes 
the  voy  temper  of  hk  apology  iw  tlie  exccMes  of  tiie 
Revolution.    He  shed  no  tears  over  the  execution  of 
Louis.    He  laments  a  larger  public  calamity,  "  that  any 
combinati(Mi  of  circumstances  should  have  rendered  it 
necessary  or  advinble  to  veil  for  a  moment  the  statutes 
of  the  laws,  and  that  by  such  emergency  the  cause  of 
twenty  five  millions  of  people,  I  may  say  of  the  whole 
human  race,  should  have  been  so  materially  injured. 
Any  other  sorrow  for  the  cteath  of  Louis  is  irrational  aid 
weak."    He  is  even  ardent  Republican  enough  to  ar- 
gue for  equality,  and  to  say  that  in  the  perfect  state  "  no 
distincttons  are  to  be  admitted  but  such  as  have  evidently 
for  their  object  the  general  good."  T?-?s  Uut  sentence 
strikes  the  key-note  in  much  of  the  philosophy  of  Words- 
worth.  "  Simplification  was,"  as  John  Morley  has  ob- 
served, "  the  key-note  of  the  revolutionaiy  time."  That 
lesson  Wordsworth  thcMX>ughly  teamed,  and  never  forgot. 
It  is  the  very  essence  of  the  democratic  spirit  to  pierce 
beneath  the  artificial  distinctions  of  a  time,  and  grasp  the 
essential ;  to  take  man  for  what  he  is,  not  for  what  he 
seems  to  be;  to  reverence  man  wherever  he  is  found, 
and  to  reverence  not  least  the  man  who  toils  in  the  low- 
liest walks  of  life.    If  this  be  the  spirit  of  democracy 
Aen  Wordsworth  kept  the  democratic  faith  whole  and 
undefiled.   So  fu  from  repudMng  tiie  pdttical  creed  of 
his  life,  he  spirit  -'ized  it,  and  lived  in  obedience  to  its 
essential  demem:  all  his  life.  That  in  later  life  he  mad' 


rested  an  incapacity  for  the  rapid  assimilatioa  of  mm 
ideas;  that  his  notions  stiflened,  and  his  perceptions 
failed;  that  he  opposed  Catholic  Emancipitfion  and  tht 
Xdbrai  BOI.  is  nerdy  to  my,  in  other  wofds,  that 
WoRbworth  grew  old.  It  is  a  rare  specUcle,  perhaps 
the  rarest,  to  see  a  great  mind  resist  the  stiflfening  of 
age,  and  retain  its  versatility  and  freshness  of  outlook  in 
the  hrt  decades  of  life.  Wontawoftil  was  never  a  vtf 
satile  man,  and  never  had  any  maind  capacity  for  the  as- 
similation of  new  ideas.  But  how  very  far  Wordsworth 
was  from  ever  being  a  fossilized  Tory  we  may  judge  by 
hii  own  saying  in  later  life : "  I  have  no  respect  what- 
ever  for  Whigs,  hut  I  have  a  good  deal  of  the  Chartist  in 
me."  However  ua  political  insight  may  '  e  failed  him 
in  his  apprehension  of  the  party  measi  . .  has  later 
life,  it  cmnot  bt  teriourijr  qocstioned  Oar  VvoidMMftii 
always  remained  true  at  heart  to  the  cause  of  tlw  people, 
and  never  swerved  in  his  real  reverence  for  man  as  man. 

The  urgency  of  the  political  passion  in  Wordsworth 
can  be  felt  aU  throi^  days  <tf  tiie  graft  war,  and 
perhaps  the  noblest  record  of  that  period  is  in  tlM  loaf 
series  of  sonnets  which  Wordsworth  wrote  between  the 
years  1803  and  1816.  In  the  year  1809  he  wrote 
•earody  aqrtWng  that  was  not  related  to  the  life  of  na- 
tions. It  was  then  that  he  apostrophized  Saragossa,  and 
lamented  over  the  submission  of  the  Tyrolese.  And  if 
few  poets  have  written  so  lai^ely  on  the  current  events 
of  their  day,  it  may  oert^nly  be  added  that  no  poet  has 
showed  a  more  cosmopolitan  spirit  It  was  indeed  a 
time  when  England  was  in  closer  touch  with  the  strug- 
gling nationalities  of  the  Continent  than  ever  before.  A 
cooMBoa  cahaify  had  dnmra  together  aB  the  peoples  of 
Bwope  who  Ma  loved  WbtK^.  Wa^ud  hid  mmm 


140  THE  UAKEBB  OF  ENGLISH  FOETRT 

breathed  the  spirit  of  so  large  a  life  at  in  those  troublous 
dayn.  She  had  never  known  a  period  <rf  such  intense 

suspense  and  united  enthusiasm.   The  beacon-fire  was 
built  on  every  hiU ;  every  village-green  resounded  to  the 
clang  of  martial  drill;  every  port  had  its  eager  watchere, 
who  swept  the  waste  fields  of  sea  with  restless  scnstiny. 
Children  were  sent  to  bed  with  all  their  clothes  neaUy 
packed  beside  them,  in  case  the  alarm  of  war  should 
bnak  the  midnight  silence;  and  invasion  was  for  months 
an  hourly  fear.   It  was  one  of  thoM  moments  of  supicme 
peril  and  passion  which  come  rarely  in  the  life  of  nations : 
one  of  those  great  regenerating  moments  when  factions 
perish,  and  a  nation  rises  into  nobler  life;  and  the  stress 
of  that  great  period  is  fdt  in  every  line  that  Wordsworth 
wrote.   His  patriotism  was  of  that  diviner  kind  which 
founds  itself  on  principles  of  universal  truth  and  right- 
eousness.  It  was  no  splendid  prejudice,  no  insularity  of 
thought,  no  mere  sentimental  love  of  country:  it  gath- 
ered  in  its  embrace  the  passions  of  Europe,  and  pleaded 
in  its  strenuous  eloquence  the  cause  of  the  oppressed 
throughout  the  worid.   This  breadth  of  view  which  char- 
acterized Wordsworth's  patriotism  is  its  noblest  chaiac- 
teristic.    It  is  a  catholic  love  of  Uberty  which  gives  him 
spiritual  comradeship  with  every  man  who  has  toiled  or 
suffered  for  his  countiy.   And  this  spirit  can  find  no 
fuller  exemplification  than  in  his  noUe  sonnet  written  in 
i8o3, 

TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men ! 
Whether  the  whistling  Rustic  tend  his  plow 
Within  thy  heuing.  or  Ay  head  be  now 

Pillowed  in  some  dark  dungeon's  earless  den  J 
O  miserable  Chieftain !  where  and  when 


PATRIOTIC  AND  POLITICAL  POSIIS  lU 

Wat  thou  find  parience?  Yet  die  not !  do  thoa 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow ; 
Thoqi^  ftUea  dij^lf.  never  to  liw  ngiin, 
Un,  and  tak«  comfort  I   Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and  skies: 
There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  foiget  thee.  Thou  hast  great  allies ; 
Thy  &i«Ml*  are  cxaltalkMis.  agonies, 
And  tore,  and  man's  nnconqnerabte  mind. 

But  catholic  as  Wordswortii's  patriotic  sympiAiet 
were,  the  noblest  expressions  of  his  patriotism  are  his  ad- 
dresses and  appeals  to  his  own  countrymen.   If  in  later 
life  he  did  not  discern  the  true  spirit  of  his  times,  and 
unconsciously  resisted  the  august  Sfririt  of  progiess,  it  ww 
in  part  because  his  honest  pride  of  country  grew  with  his 
growth  and  strengthened  with  his  age.    He  was  loth  to 
admit  faults  and  &ws  in  a  form  of  government  which 
seemed  to  meet  every  just  demand  of  liberty^  and  ofder. 
Besides,  the  great  hindrance  to  democratic  development 
was  to  Wordsworth  not  discoverable  in  any  error  or  de- 
fect of  government,  but  in  the  defective  method  of  life 
which  his  countrymen  adopted.  When  he  k  called  upon 
to  judge  the  political  measures  of  his  day,  his  touch  is 
not  sure,  nor  his  discrimination  wise ;  but  when  he  esti- 
mates the  tendencies  of  the  social  hfe  of  England  he  is 
always  clear,  cogent,  and  convincing.   His  social  grasp 
is  always  surer  than  his  political,  and  his  finest  sonnets 
are  those  in  which  he  combines  his  social  ins^ht  with 
pataiotic  passtmi.   Such  a  sonnet  is  this : 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 
When<men  change  swords  for  le^rs,  and  desert 

Tiw  stodeM's  bpwar  tot  gold,  some  fear,  unnamed 

I  had.  aqr  comqr  i-M  I  to  bt  Uaasd  ? 


142  THE  MAZERS  OF  ENGLISH  POBTBY 


Mow  when  I  diink  <rf  thee,  and  what  tboa  aiU 
Vm&y  ia  dw  bottom  of  my  IwHt 

Of  diose  unfiUal  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee  ;  we  who  find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men ; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  broiled. 
What  wonder  if  a  poet  now  and  dien. 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  ndadt 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ? 

And  this  is  a  note  which  is  struck  again  and  a^n.  In 
the  hour  of  peril  his  countrymen  rose  to  the  supreme 
daring  of  the  occasiMi.  What  he  feats  is  that  tiie  rdax- 
atioii  oS  that  intense  moral  strain  may  mean  tiiat  national 
life  may  lose  its  saving  salt  of  lofty  purpose,  and  sink 
into  carnal  c^^ntentment  and  repose.  "  Getting  and 
tpeoding  we  lay  waste  our  powers  "  is  the  thought  tint 
ftequentiy  leciUB  in  his  later  poems.  He  fears  the  ener- 
vation of  prosperity  more  than  the  buffeting  of  adversity. 
When  nations  are  surfeited  with  victory  and  peace,  they 
are  too  apt  to  lose  the  Spartan  temper  of  austere  devo- 
tion to  their  country  which  made  them  great  in  warlike 
days.  And  why  Wordsworth  so  often  recurs  to  this 
thought,  is  that  his  pride  in  his  country  has  no  bounds. 
For  the  nation  which  has  saved  the  liborties  of  Europe 
to  M  into  ii^lorioua  self-indulgence  would  be  the  last 
calamity  in  the  possible  tragedy  of  nations.  It  is  in  the 
hour  when  such  fears  beset  him,  that  he  appeals  to  "  Sid- 
ney, Marvel,  Harrington,"  who 

Knew  how  genuine  glory  is  put  on, 

Tangbt «  Imw  ri^lfidly  a  nadon  shone 

In  splendour,  what  strength  was  that  wotild  not  btad 

But  in  magnanimous  meekness. 

It  is  then  also  he  thinks  of  Milton,  whose  "  soul  was  at 


PATRHOTC  AND  POLITICAL  POEMS  148 

a  star  and  dwelt  apart,"  and  invokes  that  „ 
which  hattate  the  Puritan  past  of  England— 

We  are  lelfiah  men ; 
O  raise  us  op,  retam  to  m  afaia. 
And  give  as 


And  it  is  when  the  memory  of  that  heroic  past  of  Eag- 
land  is  most  vivid  to  his  mind  that  he  touches  his  highest 
note  of  dignified  and  haughty  pride,  and  scorns  the 
tlioi^^ 

That  this  most  famous  stream  in  bogs  and  funds 
Should  perish  I  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  kwt  forevor.   In  our  halls  is  hung 

Afmonry  of  the  Invincible  knights  of  old  ? 
We  must  be  free  or  die.  who  speak  the  tongue 

That  Shakespeare  apakt :  the  faith  and  moials  hold 
Which  Milton  held.  In  everything  we  are  spmi* 

Of  Mutii's first  Mood;  h»nmt»mui§m. 

The  patriotism  of  Wordsworth  is  not  violeiit  or 

frenzied;  it  is  comparatively  restrained;  but,  for  that 
very  re^n,  in  the  moments  of  its  highest  utterance  there 
Ma  and  force  in  it  such  as  few  writets  display. 
When  habituaUy  calm  men  break  the  btfrien  of  reserve, 
there  is  something  strangely  impressive  in  their  passion. 
There  is  nothing  more  impressive  in  Wordsworth,  as  in- 
dicathw  of  the  strength  of  his  emotions,  than  these  occa- 
sional bursts  of  exalted  patriotism,  and  dieir  force  it 
heightened  by  the  contrast  they  furaidi  to  his  habttual 
serenity  of  temper. 

There  is  one  poem  of  Wordsworth's  which  stands  out 
m  particular  prominence  as  the  greatest  of  all  his  poems 
which  express'  the  spirit  of  patriotism:  that  is  the 
Jj'^f!^  Warrior.    This  poem  was  written  in  the  year 


144  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

1806.  and  was  inspired  by  the  death  of  Nelson.  It 
was  in  the  autumn  of  the  previous  year  that  Nekon 
had  faUen  on  the  dedc  of  the  VtcUnj,  and  the  shock  of 
Borrow  and  consternation  which  passed  over  England 
has  never  been  equalled  by  any  similar  public  calamity. 
Certainly  the  death  of  no  individual  has  ever  called 
forth  so  spontaneous  and  general  a  lamentation.  Nelson 
was  to  the  England  of  his  day  the  very  incarnation 
of  manly  courage  and  heroic  virtue.   The  fascination 
of  his  name  affected  every  class  of  society.   He  seemed 
to  sum  up  in  himself  that  reverence  for  duty  ^rtiidi  fa 
so  characteristic  a  feature  of  tiie  English  race.  Between 
Nelson  and  Wordsworth  there  could  be  little  in  common, 
save  this  bond  of  ardent  patriotism,  but  that  was 
sufficient  to  caU  forth  from  Wordsworth  one  of  his 
finest  poems.   JiBt  as  we  can  specify  certain  poenis 
which  constitute  the  high-water  mark  of  Wordsworth's 
genius  in  philosophic  or  lyric  poetry,  so  we  can  con- 
fidently take  this  poem  as  his  maturest  word  in  patriotk: 
poetry.   It  breathes  the  very  spirit  of  consecrated 
heroism.    Some  points  of  the  poem  were  suggested 
by  a  more  private  sorrow— the  loss  at  sea  of  his  brother 
John ;  but  it  was  out  of  the  larger  emotion  occasioned 
by  the  deaA  of  Ndson  that  the  poem  originated.  It 
is  the  idealized  Ndson  who  stands  before  us  in  these 
verses : 

Bitt  who,  if  be  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment,  to  whicb  Heaven  bas  jnned 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  buman  Idnd, 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover,  and  attired 

With  siidtoi  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired : 

Aad,  thioi^  the  beat  of  conflict,  keeps  tfie  law 

la  catasacsa  BMde.  sad  sees  what  he  fonsaw  i 


PATBIOnC  AND  POLimiAL  POKMB  tU 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed. 

Come  when  it  will,  i,  ttfud  to  the  need. 

He  who.  thoofh  timt  endoed  m  with  a  «aiae 
And  &culty  for  stonn  and  turbulence, 
li  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-biat  u»«. 
To  homefelt  pleasures,  and  to  remler  aceiiM. 
TWt  is  the  Happy  Warrior,  this  w  He 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

When  we  lead  these  words  we  are  reminded  of  a  passant 
in  the  in  which  Wordsworth  tells  us  he^ 

never  read  of  two  gret  war^ps  grappling  wi^t  a 
thnU  of  emulation,  more  ardent  than  nJo!^ 

we  nature  of  Worcbworth.  If  he  was  serene,  it  was  not 
bemuse  he  was  leth^gic;  if  he  the  blessedni 

of  regulated  passions,  it  was  not  because  his  own  heS 

fibre  « that  courageous  and  soldierly  temper  is 
Sr^"^  exposed  ia  the  loity  spirit  ofhS 


XV 


WORDSWORTH'S  PERSONAL  CHAR- 
ACTERISTICS 

WHEN  we  put  down  the  works  of  a  poet,  we 
are  naturally  inclined  to  ask  what  the  poet 
himself  was  like  in  actual  life,  and  to  seek 
tone  authentic  presentment  of  him  as  he  moved  among 
men.  In  the  case  of  Wordsworth  we  have  many  partial 
portraits,  but  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  we  have  any  true 
and  finished  picture.  The  seclusion  of  Wordsworth's 
life  saved  him  from  the  scrutiny  of  that  social  world 
where  every  little  trait  of  character  is  indelibly  photo- 
graphed on  some  retentive  memory,  and  the  trifles  of  un- 
considered conversation  are  gathered  up,  and  often  re- 
produced after  many  days  in  diaries  and  reminiscences. 
Considering  the  literary  force  which  Wordsworth  was, 
few  men  have  had  such  scanty  dealings  with  the  literary 
drdes  of  their  time.  If  W<Mrdsworai  had  £ed  at  fifty, 
it  is  pretty  certain  that  beyond  the  reminiscences  of 
personal  friends,  like  Coleridge  and  Southey,  there  would 
have  been  little  to  guide  us  to  a  true  understanding  of 
his  person  and  character.  Gradually,  however,  as  tiie 
tide  s^  in  his  favour,  the  quiet  house  at  Rydal  Mount 
became  more  and  more  a  place  of  pilgrimage,  and  few 
visitors  of  eminence  came  away  without  noting  down 
certain  impressions,  more  or  less  instructive,  of  the  great 
Lake  Poet. 

First  of  all  there  come  naturally  the  testimonies  of 


fmONAh  CHARACTERISTICS  147 
aj^t^  With  Wordswot::  "Tt^.^Jif 

Wordsworth,  strength  ^cu":::^,      Z'^""^  ^ 
''IP^*^*-  lines  written  in  S^^JS 
own  ecbpM  and  sorrow,  and  already  quoted!  ^^"^^ 

OgreatBard! 

*^      ""i"  dying  awed  the  air. 
With  steadfast  eye  I  viewed  thee  fa  tbe  eh* 
Of  ner-^nduritig  men. 
Ah  I  M  IK«en  with  a  heut  ferloni. 
TT»e  pBbM  of  mjr  befaf  beM  wwC 

tX^:iJr»hr  .jei'*"''''"'  ■»*"' 

the  company  .»  L-  Wm 

ie  had  bd"C  a^"k't"f  '  '»  ""^t 

«"d  h«  conS^  JITh    7  "  «™« to  Wmsdf 

TiBtf         .k   .J  i      ^  """i  good  renort, 

•^^^S'^r'""'^  °'  ^•"W"'''  van 


148  THB  MAKEB8  OF  ENQUBH  POETRY 

Cave.  If  Wonbwortk  had  had  any  of  the  cknentt  of 

humoor  in  him,  he  himself  would  have  been  too  con- 
scious of  the  ludicrous  side  of  the  proceeding  to  have 
indulged  in  it   But  Wordsworth  united  in  himself 
phikMophic  seriounwss  and  diildlike  simplicity,  and  was 
sii^alarfy  insensible  to  humour.    His  neighbours  said 
they  never  heard  him  laugh,  and  remarked  that  you 
could  tell  from  his  face  there  was  no  laughter  in  his 
poetry.   He  took  Ufe  seriously,  and,  to  quote  Mrs. 
Browning's  fine  phrase,  poetry  was  to  him  "  as  serious  as 
life."    He  once  told  Sir  George  Beaumont  that  in  his 
opinion  "  a  man  of  letters,  and  indeed  all  public  men  of 
every  pursuit,  should  be  severely  frugal"   The  Puritan 
discipline  which  he  applied  to  his  life  moulded  his 
character,  and  a  constant  life  of  plain  living  and  high 
thinking  left  little  room  for  the  casual  graces  of  persiflage 
and  banter.  Of  mere  devemen,  the  ury  agiUty  of 
shallow  brains  and  ready  tongues,  he  was  destitute.  He 
was  not  suave,  not  fascinating,  scarcely  prepossessing. 
But  if  he  was  calm  it  was  not  with  any  natural  coldness 
of  temperament ;  his  cahn  was  tfa»  fruit  of  long  discipline 
and  fortitude.   One  acute  observer  speaks  of  the  fearful 
intensity  of  his  feelings  and  affections,  and  says  that  if 
his  intellect  had  been  less  strong  they  would  have 
destroyed  him  long  ago.    De  Quincey  in  like  manner 
noted  his  look  of  permature  age,>  "  the  furrowed  and 
rugged  countenance,  the  brooding  intensity  of  the  eye, 
the  bursts  of  anger  at  the  report  of  evil  doings  "—^ 
sigin  of  the  passionate  forces  which  worked  within  him. 
He  himself  in  his  many  self-revelations  conveys  the  same 
impression  of  a  nature  hard  to  govern,  of  violent 
I  De  Qidncey  says  that  when  Wordsworth  wm  thirty-nine  his  age  wm 


PEBSONAL  CHARACTERIBnCB  m 
passions  disciplined  with  difficulty,  of  wild  and  tumitltii- 
ous  dcsures  onJy  conquered  by  incessant  vigilance.  He 
bofe  upon  himMlf  the  taula  of  a  difficult  life:  and  it 
was  a  touch  of  genuine  insight  which  tod  ColeridRe  to 
describe  him  by  the  brief  and  prcffaant  rhnmr  an 
"  ever-enduring  man."  ' 

The  pictare  which  Harriet  Bfartineau  gives  of  Words- 
worth as  she  knew  him  in  his  old  age  does  not  eir  on  the 
side  of  adulation,  but  it  cannot  conceal  the  essential 
;;ru.°^      character.    Harriet  Martineau  thought 
little  Of  bm  writings,  and  says  so  with  caustic  fnmkness. 
According  to  her  view— the  view  be  it  remembered  of  an 
incessanUy  busy  woman- Wordsworth  suflfered  from  hav- 
ing nothing  to  do ;  and  he  suffered  yet  more  in  his  old 
age  from  the  adohtion  of  the  crowd  of  visitors  who 
poured  towards  Rydal  Mount  during  the  tourist  seuon. 
To  each  of  these  idle  visitors,  and  they  averaged  live 
hundred  a  seasoa,  Wordsworth  behaved  much  in  the  same 
way.   He  politely  showed  them  round  his  grounds,  cx- 

fen  "^d  tl  ""^'i^f' I" certain  poems  we«  writ- 
ten,  and  then  pohtely  bowed  them  out    He  had  no  ie|. 

IS  t  ZJa  '^^flj^  P^H's  or  talking  of  them; 
indeed,  he  often  spoke  of  them  in  an  impcraonal  sort  of 
way.  as  though  they  had  no  relation  to  himself,  and  he 
^Uosed  them  ^  freely  as  though  some  one  ;ise  had 

^T'  that  the 

^aj^  HW  d,d  not  "best  fulfiU  the  conditions  of 
poetry,  but  it  was  a  chain  of  extremely  vmMie 
thoughts,"  a  criticism  which  Miss  Martineau  endones  as 
emmentiy  just."  In  these,  and  in  many  similar  pro- 
ceedmgs,  we  recognise  the  naive  simplicity  of  the  man. 
He  solemnly  advised  Miss  Martineau  to  give  nothing  bnt 
tea  to  her  visitors,  and  if  thqr  wanted  meat  tot  dMB  yiy 


ISO  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGUBR  POKEBT 


for  it  themselves,  that  having  been  his  own  method  of 
proceeding  in  his  eariy  days  of  penury  at  Grasroere. 
That  this  frugal  suggestion  did  not  spring  from  any  in- 
hospitable meanness  is  abundantly  evident  from  the  larger 
generosities  of  Wordsworth's  life.  His  treatment  of 
poor  Hartley  Coleridge  is  above  praise.  Iftes  Ifartineau 
only  met  Hartley  five  times,  and  on  eadi  oocasionhewas 
drunk.  Wordsworth  treated  him  as  an  erring  son,  and 
when  all  hope  of  reclaiming  him  was  over,  paid  for  his 
lodgings,  cared  for  his  wants,  and  smoothed  his  passage 
to  the  grave.  There  are  few  more  touching  pictures  than 
that  of  the  old  poet  standing  bareheaded  by  the  grave  of 
Hartley,  on  the  bleak  winter  morning  when  all  that  was 
mortal  of  that  unhappy  genius  was  kid  to  test  in  the  quiet 
God's  acre  whkfa  was  so<m  to  receive  tiie  dust  of  Wonh- 
worth. 

An  equally  beautiful  picture  is  painted  by  Miss  Mar- 
tineau  of  the  poet  as  she  often  met  him, "  attended  per- 
haps by  half-a-score  of  cottagers'  children,  the  youngest 
pulling  at  his  cloak  or  holding  by  his  trousers,  while  he 
cut  ash  switches  out  of  the  hedge  for  them."  This  little 
touch  of  nature  may  be  pahred  off  with  Mr.  Rawnslqr's 
story,  of  how  a  pastor  in  a  faraway  parish  was  asked  by 
a  very  refined,  handsome-looking  woman  on  her  death- 
bed to  read  over  to  her  and  to  her  husband  the  poem  of 
The  Ptt  Lamb,  and  how  she  had  said  at  the  end, "  That 
was  written  about  me ;  Mr.  Wordsworth  often  spoke  to 
me,  and  patted  my  head  when  a  child,"  and  had  added 
with  a  sigh,  "  Eh,  but  he  was  such  a  dear  kind  old  man ! " 
Miss  Martineau  also  strongly  confima  the  impression  of 
Wordsworth's  isolation  from  the  main  streams  of  life,  the 
solitary  self-containedness  of  his  character,  when  she  says 
that  his  life  was  "  self-enclosed,"  and  that  he  had  scarcely 


PSBSONAL  CHAIUCIEBI8XIC8  Ul 

any  intercottne  with  otiier  miadi,  la  booln  or  comM. 

tton. 

Anodier  source  of  infonnation  about  Wordsworth  is 
found  in  the  reminiscenoes  of  him  among  the  peasantry, 
which  have  been  so  excellently  collated  by  BIr.  Rawnsley' 
Th«e  have  a  unique  value  as  the  only  record  we  possess* 
of  the  impression  which  Wordsworth  created,  not  on  cul- 
tivated minds,  but  on  the  minds  of  the  simple  dales-peo- 
ple whose  virtues  he  so  strenuously  sug.  The  northera 
mind  has  two  distinguishing  qualiUes— a  certain  quick- 
ness of  imagination  which  finds  expression  in  the  use  of 
singularly  vivid  phrases,  and  a  certain  shrewd  touch  of 
humour  which  delights  in  exaggerative  travcMy.  Mak- 
ing allowance  for  these  conditions,  we  may  construct  a 
remarkably  Ufdike  portrait  from  these  observations  of 
Wordsworth's  humble  neighboun.  We  are  fcce  to  fiu» 
with  Wordsworth  in  the  prime  of  his  power  and  force, 
when,  we  are  told,  he  was  "  a  plainish-faaced  man.  but  a 
fine  man,  lekh  (active),  and  almost  always  upon  the  road. 
He  wasn  t  a  man  of  many  words,  would  walk  by  you 
times  enuff  wi'out  sayin'  owt.  specially  when  he  was  in 
study.    He  was  always  a-studying.  and  you  mightseehis 
lipea-goin  as  hewent  along  the  road."   Another  speaks 
of  him  as  "a  vara  practical-eyed  man,  a  mui  as  seemed 
to  see  aw  that  was  sUrrin'."    He  walked  in  later  days 
with  "  a  bit  of  a  stoop,"  which  somewhat  d  finished  the 
sense  of  his  real  height,  which  was  about  six  feet  When 
he  was  making  a  poem,   he  would  set  his  head  a  bit  for- 
ward, and  put  his  hands  behint  his  back.   And  then  he 
would  start  a-bumm  ..j,  and  it  was  bum.  bum.  bum,  stop  • 
and  then  he'd,  jet  down,  and  git  a  bit  o'  paper  out.  and 
write  a  bit.    However,  his  lips  were  always  goaa'  whoole 
time  he  was  upon  grew  walk.    He  was  a  Uad 


16S  THE  MAKERS  09  mUSH  i>OSntT 


there  s  no  two  w<m]i  about  that ;  4  My  uic  was  uck  t' 
Ike  pkaee,  ha  wad  offtoaapJflr  tfia  •M' 
faatiofla  waia  iMriU||  aid  alMMiiB>  Ha  waa  flnft  '"P"^ 
thaioa^aad 

Wheeled  about 
Proud  aad  (Hudliaf  Mte  BBliwdhMf, 
casM  BM  ftr  Ms  hHH. 

He  had  veiy  little  care  tot  y  -ionaX  appearance.  He 
matSty  wore  a  wicte^wake  aai  old  biw  cMk :  *■  ahnr 
aeed  him  in  a  ^oxtt  in  r4iy  life,"  sayi  one  witacM  iriii 
pathetic  leproarh.  He  had  even  been  known  <  j  ride  in  a 
dnag<art  upon  hu>  longer  occur:>ions :  "just  a  dung-cart, 
wf  aaaat-boafdii#ol,— dMto'h— cliaii  faifbottoM, 
comfortable  as  owt."  He  had  a  deq»  bass  voice,  aad  a>hai 
he  was  "  bumming  "  awn  in  some  remote  par*  at  night- 
fall, the  casual  passenger  was  almoiki  terrified.   He  con* 

— fci^i    -  .a  *■  »  a   ■  -  -  ■  -  -  ■■         —  -         MM  n  -        ^  -a»_       _ # 

tiM  brantica  of  the  district,  and  preve^ed  many  a  cops« 
from  being  cut  down,  and  superintended  the  building  of 
many  a  cottage.   Not  a  cumpanionable  man,  however. 

rBBKMBnaaa  aBOUC  aUn  ^mmr  awas  men  lauiei  inan  av> 
tracted  them.  Indeed,  their  one  compiumt  about  him  was 
that  he  had  no  convivial  tendencies,  like  Hartley  Col  .  - 
ridge,  who  came  very  much  nearer  the  rustic  ide^  ^ 
poet  tium  the  aditafy  of  Rydal  Mount  He  was  "a  ^- 
(date-minded  man ;  as  for  his  habits,  he  had  noan  , t 
knew  him  with  a  pot  i'  his  hand,  or  a  pipe  i'  hi^  mot 
He  "  was  not  lovable  in  the  faace,  by  noa  means 
face  was  too  rugged  and  auaHre  to  be  fawinating.  So 
one  rustic  observer  after  another  iK^rs  Us  wftneaa,  the  net 
result  being  a  sufficiently  luminous  picture  of  «  ng 
and  somewhat  taciturn  man,  buried  ui  his  own  though  i, 


PEB6CINAL  CilAJUCIiaUSXIGB  IM 


^ing  up  and  down  among  his  feUows  wftfc  » 
we-inspirHig  ui^  «nd  yei  a  man  of 

mm  iMMfC  awl  <^k  sy  mpathy ;  not  a  cheerful  man.  but 
a  man  who.  a  er  ong  btttie,  1m  wott  the  secret  of 
peace,  and  wa  ,.s  a  solitary  path,  clothed  with  silence,  and 
wmmng  from  othen  the  reverence  due  to  the  hirmit  and 

Stiff  an<!  awkiraid     Wo  %«wdi  oftea  wai  in  ooft. 

ver  ation.  there  were  ^imt  when  he  created  a  sinem 
au  .aatiou      his  u!      .  laydon  says, «  Never  did  y 

"T^:  Hispnrity  rf 

heart  hi.kmd,,^.jiP  ^  ^*.  of  principle,  his  faforL. 

^  m  '.nowleag.  ^    ideager fcSl 

irtftw-chlr     uafeiptt^l  knows.  %ct.inter«^ 


o"*"    i   '•ong  all  the  various  iitenuyportreitB 
e^QM^  afVvoidsworth,  there  is  none  so  subde 
W  ^  T  ^'y'*  «ttle  of 

*w  MB  ^  in  Ms  way;  with  veracity,  easy  bre^^. 

f  for<».  »  voice  was  good,  fimrit,  sonotons;  th  Ik 

'^ily  ^r.  distinct,  fordble.  rather  than  mdoik 

^^^^  a  butinessUke,  sedately  confident,  no 

^  -  to  mouirtain^weses,  sat 

*w  itaiwart  veteran,  and  on  aU  he  said  and  did. 

you^o.  ahavesaid  he  was  a  u,^^  ^.  g„d 

""^^  Vmpathetic  and  intdli- 
-t.  when  such  offered  itsdfc  Ms  ftce  bore  ««lt«  of 

J-^  .  not  always  peaceful,  medit  tio;,;  the  look  of  it  not 
or  H.„evotent  so  much  as  close,  impregnable,  and 

^  =>5«"«ced»olacicofco«rtrediell«sathe.lredt 


154  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBT 


quiet  clearness;  there  was  enough  of  brow,  and  well- 
shaped.   He  was  lai^[e-boned,  lean,  but  still  finn-knit, 
tall,  and  strong-looking  when  he  stood ;  a  right  good  old 
steel-gray  figure,  with  a  fine  rustic  simplicity  and  dignity 
about  him,  and  a  veracious  strength  looking  tlirough  him, 
which  alight  havesuited  one  of  those  old  steel-gray  Mark- 
grttfs,  whom  Henry  the  Fowler  set  up  to  ward  the 
marches,  and  do  battle  with  the  intrusive  heathen  in  a 
stalwart  and  judicious  manner."   The  last  phrase  recalls 
to  us  Wfmkworth's  ccmfession  in  the  Prtlmde  to  his  eariy 
love  of  battle-histories,  and  thirst  for  a  life  of  heroic 
action.    A  man  who  had  not  had  something  of  the 
fighter  in  him  could  never  have  defied  the  world  as  he 
(tefied  it   His  imi^nattve  faculty  made  him  a  poet; 
but  under  all  his  intdlectual  life  there  throbbed  the  diffi- 
cult pulse  of  a  valorous  restlessness,  and  he  had  in  him 
the  pith  and  sinew  of  the  hero.   Poets  have  too  often 
been  tiie  victims  of  tiieir  own  sensitiveness,  but  W«ds- 
worth  stands  among  them  as  a  man  of  stubborn  strength, 
an  altogether  sturdy  and  unsubduable  man.   "Out  of 
this  sense  of  loneliness,"  a  friend  once  wrote  to  Harriet 
Martineau,  **  shall  grow  your  strength,  as  tiie  oak,  stand- 
ing alone,  grows  and  strengthens  with  the  storm ;  whilst 
the  ivy,  clinging  for  protection  to  the  old  temple- wall, 
has  no  power  of  self-support"    Doubtless  the  loneliness 
of  Wordswortii's  lifie  fed  his  strength,  and  no  finer  image 
than  that  of  the  oak  could  be  found  to  describe  the  reso- 
lute vigour  of  Wordsworth's  character.    He  certainly 
was  no  weak  spray  of  ivy  cUnging  to  a  temple  wall ;  but 
he  never  forgot  tiie  tcm^  and  iti  sanctities  iMtwitt- 
standing ;  and  if  he  were  an  oak,  it  was  an  oak  that  had 
its  roots  in  sacred  soil,  and  cast  the  shadow  of  its  brandies 
on  the  doorways  of  the  sanctuary. 


XVI 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH—CON- 
CLUDING SURVEY 

IT  is  evident  to  the  reader  who  has  followed  thii  im. 
perfect  study  of  Wordsworth  with  any  degree  of 

in  .o??^      ^  ^  *»ike  griat.  and 

m  concluding  our  survey  it  is  wcU  to  recapitulate  them 
In  few  poets  are  the  profound  and  trivial  found  in  sS 
dose  proximity,  and  this  is  his  chief  defect.  Like  Brown- 
Z.^  »^"yy««  Wordsworth  had  few  reader,  and 
consequently  wrote  more  for  hi.  own  ple«„,e 
Ac  artistic  restraint  an  J  carefulness  which  the  senie  of 

f^^'Z  ^  t!;?'"J"P°«--  Such  criticism  as  he 
received  was  little  better  than  insane  or  spiteful  vituper- 

Wordsworth  s  temperament  a  stubborn  depemleiice  <m 
h««elf.   It  is  hard  to  say  which  acts  withwoTTfr* 

•         ^  ^  undisceming  or  ^ 

apathy  of  an  indifferent  pubUc.   It  «e«.  KlX  W 
everjhat  i  Wordsworth  had  received  any  Sc 

mm  xo  perceive  his  own  faults  of  style  and 
W^T'^J^^r" various  pa^  i^ 
W^T^  V*^"'"  "''^^'^  prove  that.  whileT^ 
1^  to  endure  public  hostility  with  uncompS 
•to^yet  not  the  less  have  valued  pubUc  e.^ 

couragement   But  as  years  wore  awiy,  «k|  Jcfc^i^ 
readenstiU  continued  to  be  of  the  r 

16ft 


156  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGUBH  POETRY 


and  less  to  write  with  any  definite  attempt  to  gain  the  pub* 
lie  ear.  He  wrote  for  hk  own  ddectation,  and,  as  we  have 
seen,  often  attached  false  values  to  his  poems.  He  failed, 
as  every  solitary  writer  must  fail,  to  discriminate  between 
the  perfect  and  imperfect  work  of  his  genius.  The  result 
is  tiiat  to-day  tiie  perfect  woric  (rf*  Word8W(»1h  is  ham* 
pered  by  its  association  with  the  imperfect.  His  readeis 
often  fail  to  take  a  just  measurement  of  the  noble  qualities 
of  his  genius,  because  it  is  so  easy  for  them  to  pass  from 
his  greatest  poems  to  passag  es  of  verse-writing  which  are 
dull,  trivial,  bald  and  in  every  way  unworthy  of  him.  This 
fact  has  been  amply  recognized  by  Matthew  Arnold,  and 
he  has  endeavoured  to  remedy  the  defect  by  his  admira- 
ble setecti<Hi  fh»i  tiie  wwks  ^  Wordsworth.  Few  poets 
ticar  tile  process  of  selection  so  wdl,  and  oertaialx  wwe 
have  so  much  to  gain  by  it. 

There  is  something  of  pathos,  indeed,  in  the  recollec- 
tion of  die  rdatimi  which  Wordsworth  hort  to  tiie  litera- 
ture of  his  day.  He  came  in  the  wake  of  Byron,  and 
uttered  a  note  so  different  that  it  is  scarcely  surprising 
that  the  multitude  who  read  Byron  had  no  ear  for  Words- 
worth. For  every  tiiousand  who  bought  CktUb  Hmfotd^ 
there  was  perhaps  one  who  bought  the  Lyrical  Ballads. 
When  contempt  and  hostility  had  slowly  passed  into 
grateful  recognition  his  fome  was.  menaced  from  another 
quarter.  By  tiiat  time  Tennjrson  was  making  hims^ 
heard,  and  Tennyson  soon  p.issed  Wordsworth  in  the 
race  for  fame.  Wordsworth  never  knew  the  joy  of 
unrivalled  and  indisputable  preeminence.  His  star  rose 
uapercetved  in  tiie  ffanuament  where  Byrm  rcif^iicd  la 
sptendour,  and  before  the  fading  afterglow  Byron  had 
left  a  space  for  his  modest  light  to  spread,  it  was  again 
eclipsed  by  the  growing  beams  of  Tennyson.  The  one 


OONCLDDQIQ  SDBVKr  157 

poet  had  llie  vcfaement  pewwUity.  and  the  other  the 
nch  and  ornate  style,  which  Wordsworth  iMked.  Etth 
appealed  to  the  popular  ear  as  he  did  not;  the  one  with 
a  more  marterful  the  other  with  a  more  musical,  note. 
It  seemed  part  of  the  irony  of  fiite  that  Wordsworth 
should  nurture  his  heart  in  solitary  endurance  to  the  end 
and  should  never  know  what  it  was  to  reap  the  fuU 
harmt  of  his  toils.   Perhaps  also  there  is  a  law  of  com- 
pensation at  work  which  has  ensured  to  Wordsworth  a 
more  solid  fame  than  Byron  seems  Ukehr  to  enjoy  or 
Tennyson  is  likely  to  attain.   The  sureness  whS^  we 
^;^^^^»«»^ness  has  certainly  marked  the 
°^  Wonisworth'.  fame;  .„d  it  may  confidentiy 
»  1  V  .  "°  appearance  of  theZf»<ci 

B^^ads  has  Wordsworth  been  so  widely  read  asC^ 
Q«  »  muA  be  said  of  Byron  ?  WiU  L  much  be  sa^ 

s  ^etat  OfByronatleastit 
IS  true  that  he  has  decreased  while  Woednwrtlilw 

«ded.  the  rtur  of  Wordsworth  has  risen  into  dominance 
and  bun.  wit!;  an  enduring  «Kli„„itigablefl^^^  ^ 
lliere  are,  of  course,  some  dissentients  to  this  hOg- 

tt»««tecntW^  of  Swinburne,  and  stiU  less  to  Mr. 
i^ei^  ^  to  inform  us  that 

T^e  hitter  is  merely  the  smaU  impertinence  of 

menf  *«thy  of  any  serious  resent- 

ment.   Nor  can  one  quarrel  seriously  with  ao  geniia  a 

'ZL"l^  ^  Provf^bJ 

r  °^ Wordsworth  to 

.  .^ofW««-„yd^.  ftii«o«tothepurpo^ 


158  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


to  recollect  that  Coleridge  placed  Wordsworth  "  nearest 
of  ail  modern  writers  to  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  yet  in 
a  kind  perfectly  unborrowed  and  his  own."  If  this  be 
regarded  as  the  unconsidered  praise  of  enthusiastic 
friendship,  we  have  also  to  recollect  that  Matthew 
Arnold,  who  was  always  frugal  in  his  praise,  and  never 
guilty  of  untempered  adulation,  has  practiGally  endorsed 
this  verdict.  With  Shakespeare  and  Milton  he  will  not 
compare  him,  but  next  to  these  august  names  he  ranks 
Wordsworth  as  tlie  man  who  has  contributed  most  to 
tiie  permanent  wealth  of  English  poetry  since  the 
Elizabethan  age.  Nor  does  John  Motley,  one  of  the 
most  judicial  crit  iis  of  Wordsworth,  contest  the  justice  of 
this  criticism.  He  cannot  grant  him  Shakespeare's 
vastness  of  compass,  nor  Milton's  sublimity,  nor  Dante's 
"ardent  force  of  vision,"  but  he  admits  Wordswortii's 
r^^t  to  comparison,  and  admirably  states  Wordsworth's 
peculiar  gift  when  he  says,  "  What  Wordsworth  does  is 
to  assuage,  to  reconcile,  to  fortify.  Wordsworth,  at  any 
rate,  by  his  secret  of  bringing  the  infinite  into  common 
life,  as  he  invokes  it  out  of  common  life,  has  the  skill  to 
lead  us,  so  long  as  we  yield  ourselves  to  his  influence, 
into  inner  moods  of  settled  peace ;  to  touch  '  the  6ep&k 
and  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul ' ;  to  give  us  quietness, 
strength,  steadfastness,  and  purpose,  whether  to  do  or  to 
endure."  He  would  be  a  daring  man  who  contested  a 
verdict  endorsed  by  tiie  three  most  eminent  names  of 
modern  criticism,  and  it  is  pretty  safe  to  assume  that  on 
all  the  main  is<iues  this  verdict  is  decisive,  and  is  not 
likely  to  be  seriously  impugned. 

Any  final  survey  of  Wmr^worth's  work  would  be 
incomplete  without  mention  of  what  may,  after  all,  be 
taken  as  his  noUest  single  poem,  the  Odt  on  InHmaliMS 


CONCLUDING  SDBVBY  U9 

cflmmortalify  Jhm  RecoUiOums     Early  CkiUkood. 

This  poem  was  written  when  Wordsworth  was  at  the 
pnme  of  his  powers  (1803-6).  and  is  rich  in  his  pecuhar 
excellences.  It  also  sums  up  much  that  is  most  charac- 
teristic ,n  h.s  philosophy.  The  starting-point  of  his 
phjiasophy  .s  that  man  has  in  himself  all  the  elements  of 
perfect  iife,  if  he  wiU  but  learn  how  to  adjust  himself  to 
the  envwonment  in  which  he  finds  himself; 

The  Cjild  is  father  of  the  Man. 

I  could  wish  mjr  days  to  be 

fioond  eadi  to  each  ia  aatoial  pie^. 

The  evils  of  life  spring  from  the  pervene  disregard  of 
his  true  instincts,  to  which  man  is  prone.  The  child 
loves  Nature,  and  is  happiest  in  contact  with  Nature,  and 
•t  IS  for  ftat  wason  Wordsworth  urges  the  absolute  need 
for  communion  with  Nature  in  the  perfect  human  life. 
Jn  the  natural  instincts  of  the  child's  heart  we  have,  if  we 

st«  ""^  '^'^y  pointer- 

tors  by  which  we  can  measure  the  firmament  of  human 
hfe  and  ascertain  the  true  bearings  and  infinite  courses 
of  human  destiny.   But  behind  this  assumption  another 
question  lies:  we  ask.  What  is  there  to  prove  to  us  hat 
these  instincts  are  right,  and  fnm  whence  do  they 
spring  ?    The  answer  to  this  question  Wordsworth  giva 
m  ft«  great  ode.   As  usual,  he  probes  the  mystic  depths 
of  his  own  experiences,  am!  from  that  depth  rescues  the 
clue  which  interprets  to  him  the  whole  mysteiy  and  cir- 
cumference  of  human  destiny.    He  telk  us  that  as  a 
Child  he  had  nt>  notion  of  death,  nor  could  he  brine 

He  felt  within  himself  the  movements  of  a  spirit  tl£ 


leo  THE  MAKKRR  OF  EBTGLIBS  POETRY 


MM 


knew  nothing  of  decay  or  death.  He  even  felt  it  diffi- 
cult to  fcaliae  tiw  het  of  an  enternal  world,  so  absorbed 

was  he  in  the  rapture  of  idealism.  "  Many  times,"  he 
says, "  while  going  to  school,  have  I  grasped  at  a  wall  or 
tree  to  recall  myself  from  this  abyss  of  idealism  to  the 
fcality.  At  tlutf  time  I  was  afiraid  of  such  proceases. 
In  later  periods  of  life  I  have  deplored,  as  we  have  all 
reason  to  do,  a  subjugation  of  an  opposite  character,  and 
have  rejoiced  over  the  remembrances,  as  is  e3q>ressed  in 
rtw}  Unes: 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings. 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature, 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  rec<^gnlaed* 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  mtmm 
tnmUc  like  a  gnltr  Thing  suiprind. 

He  reeaOs  tiie  **  dream-iike  vividneas  and  sjdendour  whidi 

invests  objects  of  sight  in  childhood,"  and  then  asks: 
What  is  the  interpretation  of  this  sense  of  wonder  and 
strangeness  which  is  the  earliest  recollection  of  childhood 
in  titeprcMsoe  of  external  natim?'  Hb  refdy  is  tiwt  in 
the  child's  spiritual  aloofness  from  the  world,  in  his  sense 
of  the  foreignness  of  life  as  he  finds  it,  is  the  intimation 
of  his  previous  existence  in  the  purer  realms  of  spirit,  and 
of  his  ultimate  return  to  a  t{^ritual  existence.  He  is  a 
spirit  clothed  with  fleshy  apparel  for  a  moment,  but  im- 
mortal in  himself,  and  moving  through  the  darkened 
ways  ci  mortality  with  the  primal  fire  of  immortality 
btmiing  in  his  heart,  and  treiiibliiy  upwards  to  tiiesoufee 
from  which  it  sprang.  The  world  is  his  prison-house, 
and  the  great  end  of  life  is  not  to  be  reconciled  to  the 
prison4ottte^  but  to  retain  and  strengthen  the  Divine 


dwires  which  haunt  him  with  the  sense  of  tomrtiiiiir  lost 
and  something  higher.  Matib»dtmynoS!^A^ 
may  be,  and  yet  they  are 

The  fMutain-light  of  aU  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  aMnqigbt  of  aU  our  Metiw ; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  mad  have  poivtr  to  oMki 
Our  noiqr  ywra  kmi  amnentt  in  the  beiiw 
or  oe  Ml  Ml  aOeKe ;  troths  that  wake 
To  perish  never ; 

WfaKh  neither  listlessneM,  nor  mad  --jmiGM. 
N«  Man  m*  Boy, 
Nor  all  Aat  is  at  enmity  with  joy 
Can  otleriy  abolish  or  destroy  I 

This  poem  is  the  noblest  of  aU  testimony  to  the  profound 

rehgiousaess  of  Wordsworth's  spirit.   It  breathes  some- 

7°8  "f T  with  the  rapture 

of  the  loftiest  piety.   It  purge.,  it  tnmioam,  iT^ 

m  the  unfoldmg  vision  of  gloiy  beyond  glory,  such  as  he 

ZT  "'T^r  ^""'^-^^dtheL^Tp^^t 

"y'^''  °^  immeasurahle  DMae  pu^ 
Mhng  themselves  Prisoner  though  we  be.stiflSIH 
wwM  of  jense.  weighed  upon  with  fette«  of  ignoble 
Z'°"'j?»f  _r  ^aieadtery  peak  of  contLpk! 


Ow  sMb  have  tlfbt  or  thM  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  thither. 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  hkher 
And  see  the  chiUiM  am  WM  ifa  Am. 

And  last,  it  may  be  noted.  ||M  In  fteiaiy  fiaidi  and 


162  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


poem.  It  marks  the  complete  culmination  of  his  power. 
Biraie  after  phrase,  sudi  as 

Fikh  that  looks  through  death. 

In  years  dnt  btiag  tht  pUlaiopUc  niad  s 

or, 

Owbiitti  is  bat  a  dsep  and  a  fiiigeuiuf  • 

or. 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears, 

has  passed  into  the  currency  of  literature  unnoticed,  by 
reason  of  some  unforgettable  quality  of  thought  or  ex- 
prankMi,  whidi  stamps  itself  upon  the  univenal  memoty. 
Longer  poems,  full  of  passages  of  memorable  insight  or 
emotion,  Wordsworth  has  written,  but  his  great  qualities 
find  no  nobler  display  than  in  this  poem.  Nowhere  does 
he  oiore  neaity  mpgiatuch  to  Miitmi's  suUime  and  un- 
flagging' strength,  and  Dante's  severe,  vivid,  ardent  force 
of  vision."  It  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  few  great  odes  of 
English  literature,  and  is  in  itself  sufficient  to  give  Words- 
worth rank  amm^  ^  few  gmSert  poets  who  rtand  se- 
core  above  die  tmnrienoe  <tf  human  taster- 

the  great  of  old, 
The  dead  but  sceptred  sov'r^os,  who  itiU  mk 
Our  spirits  bam  their  oms. 

Finally,  we  note  that  Wc  l's worth  is  not  the  poet  of 
youth,  but  of  maturity.  There  is  poetry,  as  there  is  art, 
whidi  does  not  dasde  uswttii  wea^  of  colour,  but  whidi 

deals  in  cool  and  silvery  grays,  unnoticed  by  tht  taste 
which  seeks  startling  and  sensational  effects,  but  infiniidy 
refreshing  to  tired  eyes  which  have  loi^  since  turned 


CONCLUDING  SUBVEY 


cnarm  oc  Wonkworth  begins  to  be  m<»t  keenlv  rdi  t„ 

of  Byron  or  the  cloying  sweetness  of  Kea?T,!l!^ 
«»«  like  the  presence  of  Nature  heSdf  hHT^ 

^T,  i:jr:r "?  '■^"^".U'et^r 

He^teX  I ' «~'°"%  «fred„«nt 
"e«Ute  the  lieart.  he  inspires  and  MiaidMi  tk. 

^He  adrance,  „,th  us  as  we  pass  into  those  dJto^ 

losopher.  and  friend;  «,d  wh'T^y'X'^SL't 
youth  are  shakM  ««•  *i.       ^    '"«uiy  oiner  gntOM  of 

more  J  wLSJ^k"""'.  ^"^  '"^ 

power  to  gi»^^  *tal>» 


f 

)  j 


.-1 


xvn 


THE  HUMANITARIAN  MOVEMENT  IN 
POETRY— THOMAS  HOOD  AND 
MRS.  BROWNING 

TkuMt  Hitdt  if  Ar  tMulm,  i^gS.    Wntt  tkt  St»g  »f  tkt 

Shirt,  1841,  DitJ  in  LtHdn,  May,  1845. — Brnoniggt 
btTH  i»  Lmim,  iisrtk  4,  iSojf.    Dki  w  Fkma,  Jnat  ajh 

i86i. 

ANY  survey  of  the  poets  would  be  incomplete 
whidi  i&A  not  take  into  acoount  the  begwningi 
of  a  movement  in  modern  literature  which  we 
may  call  the  Humanitarian  Movement.  If  we  cared  to 
go  back  far  enough  in  the  search  for  its  b^nnings,  we 
diorfd  clearly  teve  to  toudi  i^iain  upon  tiie  work  of 
Oabbe,  who  is  in  many  respects  the  father  of  humanita- 
riaa  realism  in  poetry.  Crabbe  had  no  delicacy  of  touch 
and  little  refinement  of  mind,  but  he  knew  how  to  paint 
hii  pictures  of  toit  tuflfering  poor  in  a  broad  and  eflfeetive 
fashion,  which  secured  him  both  attention  and  fame  in 
his  day.  The  weak  point  in  Crabbe's  work  is  a  certain 
vitiatii^  touch  of  coarseness.  He  sometimes  excites  re- 
pdri<m  wliere  he  meant  to  stiffltilate  pity.  Between  pity 
and  repulsion  the  line  demarcation  is  often  slender,and 
Crabbe's  power  of  discernment  was  not  sensitive  ana  sub- 
tie  enough  alwasrs  to  observe  it  There  is  a  certain  air  of 
deUber^on  about  his  realism,  and  sometimes  a  tedious 
accumulation  of  detail  in  his  method,  which  hide  from  us 
the  ceauin^  hmiert  sympathy  of  his  nature.  In  a  wofd» 


TBfmAa  HOOD  AMP  MB&BaoWHDIQ  165 

toIdndlemtowhite.lMit,ortolifadltadi«.  UmtZ 
^  for  two  later  poet,.  Hood  «rf  M.^ 

doftj^«KA  vd«ni«ee  .ad  pMsion  tha^ 
""Mw'ww  a  new  era  in  modern  poeby. 

DMmilar  as  Thomas  Hood  and  Bfn.  Browning  were  in 
«uny  i^,ect3.  yet  their  live,  bear  .  close  resemblance  in 
famjUarity  wfth  ■rfrfort-ac  Hood'.  Ufc  w«i  a  o? 
hard  work  faithfuUy  done;  of  b^q^  ^omm,  teme 
with  brave  endurance  and  buoyant  trust   His  fint  verse. 

t^l^^^  newspaper,  and  like  many  other 
men  he  slid  «to  Bterrturenithcrly 
than  by  mtention  and  deliberate  dedicatioa.  Lflw  mattv 
othe«.  he  abo  found  that  literature  was  an  excSS 
cnjA  but  a  bad  support  His  knowledge  of  engraving 
and  h«  ooBilc  e^m  bmught  him  br«^  but  the^ 
of  Imng  were  often  wrelyicanty.  Atoi^tliiiete^ 
J^tu^patriated  by  commercial  lo««.  and  took 

^ol^l^^T^y-   ^'^^^  health,  often 

^"^u*^  «  family  which 

increased  with   embarrassing  npidity  wM.  ninitiTr 

S^JltL'^'^'f     to  depress  and  h^n^s  him^Si 

d«cern  the  ttm  nMmmB  of  .ueh  .  struggle  as  this  Hood 
will  wear  something  of  the  lustre  of  true  tea  ft 
^  not  the  Byronic  here  sm  which  mouths  its  i^pon 
tte  stage,  and  invites  the  public  to  share  its  s«^.  but 
fteheroism  of  retioeace.  wliidi  e»dra  and  is  ouiA 
Hood  obeyed  ariyle's  doctrine:  1m  ooMtmwd  Mi  om 
He  wrote  no  bitter,  petulant,  or  complaining 


ir,n   THE  MAKERS  OF  ENOUSH  PO£TK\ 


plauded  hU  jests,  but  little  knew  how  heavy  was  the  heart 
of  the  jester.  Hood  was  not  the  man  to  let  them  know. 
Perhaps  with  him,  as  widi  Abraham  Lincoln,  "  laughter 
ym  his  vent  for  sorrow  " :  if  he  had  not  laughed  he  woidd 
have  died  of  a  broken  heart  or  frenzied  brain.  He  so 
habitually  practiced  the  art  of  jesting  at  his  sorrows  that 
his  son  tells  us  that  even  when  the  shadow  of  death  had 
fiiUen  on  him,  and  a  sinapism  of  more  than  usual  potency 
was  applied  to  his  wasted  chest,  he  said,  smilingly,  "  It 
seems  a  great  deal  of  mustard  for  so  very  little  meat" 
And  this  lifelong  sorrow  of  Hood,  this  daily-enacted  trag- 
tdy  of  "  despairing  hope,"  did  not  make  him  selfish,  but 
sympathetic,  and  led  him  to  look  with  passionate  insight 
and  pity  on  the  sorrows  of  others.  Perhaps  it  needs  a 
■uftii.1  to  interpret  sufTering,  and  only  a  man  wko  had 
found  how  hard  it  was  to  work  frr  hrmi  in  I  nndiw  rniiM 
have  written  the  Son^  of  tht  Shirt. 

The  same  story  of  personal  suffering  occupies  more 
than  half  of  tfie  Ufe  of  Mn.  Browning.  She  faideed  w« 
opulent  enoiq^  to  be  above  the  bitter  fight  for  bread,  but 
her  troubles  came  in  another  way.  ,  Her  first  volume  was 
published  in  her  seventeenth  year,  and  bore  the  ambitious 
titie  An  Essay  en  Mind.  Tha  was  foUowed  by  a  traarift* 
tion  of  the  Prometheus  Bound,  of  iGschylus,  in  1833.  and 
this  again  by  two  volumes  of  original  poems  in  1838-9. 
It  was  at  this  period  that  the  shadow  of  calamity  was  pro- 
jected over  the  life  of  the  young  poet  l%e  burst  ablood 
vessd,  and  "was  removed  in  a  state  of  extreme  debility  to 
Torquay.  While  there  her  brother  and  two  other  young 
men  were  drowned  by  the  capsizing  of  a  sailing  boat 
This  tragic  event  cora^rfeted  die  proetnrtion  <A  Hwniffmr. 
From  that  hour,  and  for  many  years  to  come,  she  lived 
the  life  of  a  confinned  invalid— a  life  that  huaff  tmnUiag 


THOMAS  HOOD  AND  IfB&BBOWiniiG  W 

on  the  borden  of  the  invisible  land,  and  iHUdi  wm  atvar 

lifted  out  of  the  solemn  shadows  of  eternal  things.  The 
bloom  of  her  youth  was  gone,  and  her  thoughts  naturally 
took  a  imptt  tad  a  davotioiMl  tone.  The  inactivity  of 
her  body  seemed  to  stimulate  her  mind  to  mAmM^  ^ 
ertion.   Her  close  friend,  Miss  Mitford,  has  given  us  in  a 
sentence  a  picture  of  the  isolated  and  yet  intense  life  which 
Miss  Bnrrett— as  tim  tiica  was  spent  for  many  yean. 
She  was   confined  to  a  darkened  chamber*  to  which  ool^ 
her  own  family  and  a  few  devoted  friends  were  admitted; 
reading  meanwhile  almost  every  book  worth  reading  in 
almost  every  laaguaie.  aaditadying  with  ever-fresh  de- 
light the  great  classic  authon  hi  tiie  original"  For  Un. 
Bi  .  v/ning  was  one  of  the  few  women  who  have  attained 
to  ripe  and  exact  classical  scholarship,  and  in  her  day  that 
was  an  attainmeat  kr  nmr        it  it  hioun.  In  that 
darkened  chamber  the  great  miadl  of  all  ag«  hdd  con- 
verse with  her,  and  they  alone  iven  friends  who  never 
wwied,  who  never  came  :  >o  early,  atver  stayed  too  long 
aad  never  were  deiried  an  auoimce.  And  in  that  life  of 
languor  and  suflTering  her  fc  '        -re  libeiatwi  and  hw 
^pathies  educated  into  a    j       tjainful  sensitiveness. 
The  contact  of  the  world's  sorrow  .vas  for  her  like  a  burr 
ing  iron  laid  upon  a  raw  plaee.  It  waa  impoesible  fc  r 
to  speak  of  it  save  with  an  accent  of  pathos  so  diepaa  a* 
be  almost  agonized.    Her  power  of  pathos  pervaded 
everythmg  she  wrote.   Her  verse?  .ften  seem  to  ]uiver 
and  throb  with  the  pantonate  w  .^athy  out  of  which 
they  sprang.   We  hear  the  weep?  f>g  in  them,  w*  foel  the 
ywrning.   There  is  a  sort  of  heart-searching  power  in 
m  Brownins^  which  no  other  poet  of  our  times  has 
had.   She  is  wh(%  poMMed  wtth  her  subject,  and  her 
•ad  mwrnmmhmtmdm.  Hkim' 


I 


168  THE  MAKIliS      ERiaLmB  KHEIBY 


poMible  to  doubt  Huit  wHii  her,  as  with  Hood,  uiflering 
was  an  education.  The  acquaintance  with  grief  tau^ 
her  the  secret  of  comfort,  the  mystery  of  pain  the  secret 
of  trust,  and  the  loneliness  of  life  the  secret  of  instg^ 
It  WM  tint  prolonged  comradeship  with  sorrow  which 
iottnicted  her  how  to  touch  the  springs  of  human 
sympathy  with  so  sure  a  hand,  and  led  her  through  the 
avenues  of  her  own  suffering  into  a  sacrificial  comrade- 
ditp  in  tiie  suflerings  of  society. 

At  this  point,  however,  an  essential  difference  be- 
tween Hood  and  Mrs.  Browning  is  evident.  To  Mrs. 
Browning  poetry  was  not  so  much  a  purpose  as  a  passion, 
whereas  Hood's  serious  poetry  was  the  rare  counterfoil 
to  his  comic  genius.  Mrs.  Browning  said  of  her  life- 
work,  "  Pcet-y  has  been  as  serious  to  me  as  life  itself,  and 
life  has  been  very  serious.  I  never  mistook  pleasure 
for  the  final  cause  of  poetry,  nor  leisure  for  the  hour 
oi  the  poet.  I  have  done  my  work  so  far  as  woric;  not 
as  mere  hand  and  head  work  apart  from  the  personal 
being,  but  as  the  completest  exposition  of  that  being  to 
wUsk  1  covSd  attain,  and  as  wcMrk  I  oflfer  it  to  the  piddic, 
feeling  its  shortcomings  more  deeply  than  any  of  my 
readers,  beca'ise  measured  by  the  height  of  my  aspira- 
tion." It  is  feared  that  poor  Hood  never  had  time  to 
anke  poetry  his  life-work.  His  son  said  that  nodih^ 
would  have  surprised  him  more  than  to  have  witnessed 
the  publication  of  his  Serious  Poems.  How  finely  Hood 
could  write,  when  the  pressure  of  life  left  thim  a  brief 
Idsure  for  the  higher  exercise  of  his  powers,  is  seen  ia 
such  poems  as  the  Haunted  House,  Eugene  Aram,  and  in 
such  sweet,  bird-like  notes  of  lyric  pathos  and  melody  a* 
//  was  the  Ttme  of  Roses  and  I  remember.  Hood  pos- 
MMd  a  strong  imaginition,  together  with  gmt  noble- 


THOMAS  HOOD  AND  MRS.  BROWNING  169 
ncss  of  feeling  and  purity  of  diction.   The  HaumUd 
Htmu  IS  one  of  the  most  masterly  studies  in  horror 
which  any  literature  eta  slwir.  The  tfam,  deliberate 
pilmg-up  of  the  imagery  of  horror,  the  association  of  att 
that  superstiUon  can  invent  or  cowardice  can  dread,  of 
aU  tiiat  past  tragedy  can  accomplish  or  bequeath,  the 
gradual  culmination  of  glooa  aad  horror  as  the  poem 
passes  to  its  conclusion,  make  it  in  its  way  an  extiMr- 
dinaiy  production,  such  as  only  an  artist  of  firet-rate 
eweBence  could  have  perfected.   In  the  hands  of  any 
one  but  a  master  the  reiteration  and  multiplication  of 
images  of  fear  would  have  become  absurd  or  monoto- 
nous, but  with  Hood  they  produce  the  effect  of  thickening 
gloom,  and  it  is  an  unbearable  and  doomful  voice  which 
utters  the  home  refivin. 

O'er  an  Aere  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  sjnrit  inniHid, 

And  said,  as  pliun  as  whiq^  hi  dw  car 
The  place  is  haatted  \  ' 

Wehave  need  to  turn  to  poems  like  these  to  form  a 
true  ertimtte  of  Hood's  poems.  In  ardour  of  thought 
and  intensity  of  imagination  he  fiOis  very  fhr  kILi 
Mr.  Browning,  but  we  should  not  forget  that  while  Bin. 
Brownmg  had  every  opportunity  for  the  development  of 
Aer  gsaras.  Hood's  noblest  powera  were  stifled  by  the 
sordid  needs  of  life.   The  kinship  betw,«,  them  w«  not 
mteUectual.  but  moral.   And  at  one  point  in  the  develop- 
ment of  these  widely  different  lives  they  touched  and 
mingled,  and  for  both  poetry  became  as  serious  as  life 
and  was  not  so  much  a  purpose  as  a  pMrioit   That  point 
ofaccord  was  the  humanitarian  sympathy  which  wruae 
worn  the  soUtary  student  of  Greek  poetiy  and 


170  THE  MAKSB8  OF  BHTGOBH  FOETBY 


ronance  the  Oy  ^  tkt  OUUnm,  and  bcm  tlie  sidd^ 
journalist  who  must  needs  jest  for  bnad  lint  Briigt  ^ 
Sighs  and  the  Song  of  tht  Skirt. 

Anotiier  thing  wortiiy  <rf  notice  is  that  it  was  in  the 
writings,  and  through  the  influence,  <tf  Thomai  Hood 
and  Mrs.  Browning,  that  the  city  in  its  tragic  social 
aspects  became  definitely  annexed  to  the  realm  of  Eng- 
Kdi  podiy.  The  poetry  of  the  country  is  easily  per- 
ceived: it  nee^  a  mMedttceming^  to  recognised 
strange  and  moving  poetry  of  the  city.  Both  these 
poets  were  Londoners,  and  so  thoroughly  was  Hood 
a  child  of  the  city  that  be  might  have  said  with  a  later 
poet: 

City !  I  am  true  cUM  of  ddaei 

Ne'er  dwelt  I  where  great  moraiogt  Mm 

Around  the  bleating  pens ; 
Ne'er  by  the  rivulets  I  strayed. 
And  ne'er  upon  my  childhood  weif^Md 

The  rilence  tit  the  glens ; 
Instead  of  shores  where  ocean  beaH^ 
I  hear  the  ebb  and  flow  of  stieets. 

Hood  knew  the  "  tragic  heart  of  tbwns,"  and  was  almost 
the  first  of  our  poets  to  recognize  in  poetry  the  social 
prafaiMM  of  great  dtta.  UntS  Hood  wrt>te  It  may  even 
be  said  that  English  poets  had  little  or  nothing  to  si^ 
about  cities.  Poetry  had  haunted  the  quiet  dales  of 
Westmoreland  and  the  sunny  heights  of  Italy,  the  happy 
plaeeior  Ikwen  and  fBHtittg,tlie  solemn  plaoes  of  tragic 
gk>om  where  world-wide  histories  had  been  shaped,  but 
it  had  shown  no  appreciation  of  the  tragic  miseries  of 
great  cities.  Wordsworth  saw  no  vision  from  Westminster 
Bridge  bt«  Utt  vision  of  ttw  &wn  adding  splradoorand 
ai^ci^  to  dM  kMg  Bms  or  hoM  and  tiw  brand  awMp 


THOMAS  HOOD  AND  MRS.  BROWNING  ITX 

of  flashing  river.  Even  SheUey,  with  aU  his  sympathy 
for  sufiering,  wrote  no  poem  dir.  ctly  dealing  with  the 

•low  maityfdom  of  the  obscure  and  hd^fcaiWied  toilen 
of  London.    He  did  once  say,  bitterly  enough,  that  hell 
must  be  a  city  very  like  London— but  that  was  all.  He 
the  child  of  dreams,  and  in  his  hfelong  dream  of 

■odal  reconstruction  WM  too  abKwbed  to  the  splendoun 

of  hope  to  take  minute  note  of  the  sorrows  of  reality. 
But  Hood  Uved  in  London,  and  saw  day  by  day  the 
open  secret  of  its  misery.   He  Uved  at  the  beginning  of 
a  new  social  age  which  was  ftst  blotting  out  the  hamlets 
of  England,  and  replacing  them  by  an  empire  of  Otim. 
He  was  face  to  face  with  the  social  problems  which  over- 
■iMdowed  the  nineteenth  century ;  and  what  wonder  is 
it  that  behind  the  woven  tapestry  of  city  splendour,  the 
outward  glory  and  sustained  dignity  of  metropolitan  US6, 
he  pierced  to  the  silent  tragedy  of  its  multitudinous  lives 
spent  m  unvictorious  struggle,  in  famished  drudgery,  and 
reluctant shMM?  Hood  recaBed men  ftomihe  virion  of 
Nature  to  the  vision  of  man ;  from  tiie  virion  of  mm  la 
rustic  innocence  to  the  vision  of  man  among  the  sordid 
degradatimis  of  vast  cities.   It  is  now  generally  admitted 
that  deterientiott  is  the  N«Mrii  of  dty  life,  and  perhap 
not  merely  deterioration  of  physique.  btA  of  sympa^, 
which  is  a  far  more  serious  mmcr.    PoasiUy  Hood' 
^"^"^  '"f        Sooe  so  Car  as  to  say  thai «  grftt  ci^  p 


AImI  Ibr  the  nritf 
Of  QHistiaa  clfptof 


he  meant  his  rebuke  to  be  specially  applied  to  that  cal- 
lous indiilerence  to  othen  which  qtim  ^m^iMlyktm^ 


172  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENQLISB  FCmBT 

aad  his  words  struck  die  first  note  of  a  atir  monimiu 
wUch  is  fast  socializing  poctiy*  and  chai^iag  not  muOr 
its  themes  but  its  spirit 

In  the  same  tiiirit,  if  not  in  the  same  degree.  Mn. 
Browning  is  also  the  poet  of  cities.  She  can  paint  with 
Turneresque  Iweadth  and  vigour  the  sun  pushk^  te  my 
ttrough  a  London  fog,  and  can  delight  in 

Fair  fantastic  Paris!  who  wean  trees 

like  pinmet.  as  tf  man  made  them,  spire  and  tower. 

As  if  they  had  grown  by  nature  ;  tossing  up 

Her  fountains  in  the  sunshine  of  her  squares. 

As  if  in  beauty's  game  riw  toned  Ae  dice. 

Or  blew  the  silver  down-balls  of  her  dreams 

To  tow  fnturity  with  seeds  of  thought. 

And  if  in  her  later  poetiy  Mrs.  Browning  sings  of  cities, 
it  k  dearijr  not  because  she  has  lost  her  fresh  and  vigor- 
omdeUght  in  Nature.  Who  hat  ever  spoken  of  NaLe 
with  more  rapt  intensity  of  joy  ?  She  lorn  nml  Em- 
land  so  well  that  she  says  it  is 

As  if  God's  finger  touched  but  did  not  press 
la  making  England,  such  an  up  and  down 
Of  verdure ;  nothing  too  much  ap  or  down ; 
A  npsit  of  hmd,  such  little  hills,  the  sky 
Cu  Mop  to  ItBderly.  and  the  wheat>fields  cUmb  ; 
Sm^  nooks  of  vaUeys  lined  with  oicMstib 
Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible  streams. 

And  how  exquisitely  she  speaks 

Spring's  delicious  btwble  in  the  ground. 
TiBmwnted  by  the  quickened  blood  ol  roots, 
AadsailjrpikkMlb]rgoiiBa( 


And  ham  porfectiy  the  speaks  alw  of  kendf,  in  that 
y«ng  giwtt  worid»  **  ilattaf  at  a  wotk  ^Mt,** 


TIC0iU8H0(H)Ain>MlW.BaOWNING  m 
As  riqga  the  hrk  when  sucked  ap  out  of  sttht 

So  loit  ii  abt  ia  a  worid  Of  t/mboliMB,  llMt  Ae  telii  » 

Eveiy  natund  iiowtr  which  grows  oacMk 

Implies  a  flower  upon  the  T*rHwl  Mi ; 

and  withal  there  is  about  her  a  spiritual  imaginativewsi, 
to  which  the  whole  mystery  of  earth  and  heaven  lies 
naked  aad  open,  which  is  ahnost  unmatched  for  purihr 
and  intensity  among  our  poeli.   Such  a  womw,  hii  she 
lived  all  her  life  in  the  home  of  violets,  might  have  sune 
only  of  the  fragrance  and  delight  of  Nature,  and  she  had 
done  well  But  she  also  lived  in  London,  and  London 
weighed  upon  her  souL  She  could  not  rid  hetsetf  of  its 
ghasUy  presences,  and  so  the  hand  that  wrote  tiiCM 
tovely  passages,  which  seem  almost  to  exhale  the  very 
Odour  of  the  spring,  wrote  abo  of  the  social  evU  which 

Slan  eor  cruel  streets  from  end  to  end 
With  eighty  thousand  women  in  one  wmUt, 
Who  only  smile  at  night  beneath  the  gas. 

What  it  costs  for  a  woman  of  such  delicate  sensitiveness 
•nd  womanly  purity  as  Mrs.  Browning  to  write  such  lines 
as  these  we  camiot  know,  but  we  can  measuie  by  them  the 
depth  of  that  impression  which  the  horror  of  dtks  tmd 
madeupon  her  spirit  And  we  can  understand  also  how 
the  spectade  of  wronged  and  martyred  chUd-life  in  great 
cues  moved  her  net !«»  deeply,  and  we  re.ll«  the  Lee 
tension  of  ahnost  prophetic  maledictioa  whidi  iMriad 
against  our  vaunted  civilization  tiie  reproach  of 

IUg||d  childtcn,  with  ban  fMt. 
Wlwn     aagtb  fa  whHe  raimeat 
Know  the  names  of  to  repeat 
Whtn  they  come  on  as  ftr  payaNab 


m  THS  MAKERS  OF  sNousE  raennr 

With  Mrs.  Browning,  as  with  Hood,  it  was  the  foroe  of 
an  intense  sympathy  which  urged  her  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  social  wrongs,  and  wrung  from  her  a  song  of 
potgoaiit  sofTOw,  iadigiMtion,  and  leproacfa. 

And  again,  of  Hood  and  Mrs.  Brownii^  it  most  be 
added  that  each  is  a  Christian  humanitarian.  Bitter  as  is 
the  indictment  which  they  bring  against  society,  yet 
neitlier  ii  hopeless.  Mn.  Browiiing  sometimes  writes  as 
one  who  "at  the  anm  of  hope  with  hopeiot  head  b 
dinging,"  and  telb  us— 

I  was  heavy  then, 
And  Itnpid,  and  distracted  with  the  cries 
Of  tortured  prisoners  in  the  pcAriwd  brass 
Of  that  Phalariao  ball.  Society  — 

I  beheld  the  world 
As  one  great  famishing  carnivorous  mouth, 
An  open  mooth,  a  grow  want,  bread  to  fill  the  Hpt 


Moi 

but  she  abo  hastens  to  add  that  her  despair  was  becaiae 
die 

heard  the  cries 
Too  close ;  I  could  not  bear  the  angeb  lift 

A  fidd  of  nodtaff  air.  aor  what  they  said 
Tobslp«ypHy. 

Despair  springs  from  want  of  imagiaatloii,  mA  Ifo. 
Browning  had  far  too  vivid  a  vision  of  eternal  things  to 
be  pessimistic.  A  Divine  trust,  a  tender  resignation,  a 
dear  hope  in  a  beyond,  both  for  the  individual  and 
society,  fiU  her  writings,  and  Christ  is  in  all  her  tbxm^ 
of  men,  and  all  her  hopes  for  the  future  of  man. 

In  her  essay  on  Tkg  Gnat  CkrisHan  Poets  she  has 
MklfWewant  tiie  toudi  of  Christ's  hand  upon  our 
HteMtaw  «  it  touched  other  dead  things;  we  want  the 


of  our 


MRS.  BROWNING  175 

"^^^  blood  upon  the  8oub 

Acm  in  Mtwer  to 


the  ceaseless  wail  of  the  Sphinx  of  ow 


pounding  agony  into  renovation.    ^u.c™  oi  ow  l» 

—  — ^Mi^'^t"""'^"  glory  was  at  the 
Adlest  SMMduag  of  «jM  hopefuhwas  in  thefioai 
tnumph  of  humanity—is  always  to*e  pBgii^i- 
Browning's  poetry.  The  agony  of  the  world  wd^ 
h«v, ly  upon  her  The  wail  of  its  pain  and  deso  J" 
v.brat«  .nc«»tly  upon  1*  W.  She  not  mc««i; 
hears  it  and  feels  it,  but  '"^'*^]ywktnt  ft.  B»  faMuf 
qmsite^nsitiveness,  she  seems  to  appropriate  the  sum^ 

wno  Mc  aees  and  sympathize?  with  sorrow  but 
whose  own  heart  is  litmMy  pfaned  Mi  »^    '  TT 

!?K«r''"T.''"!^-  '^«-'^"«P°««n3ofMrBro^% 

m  wiiKn  cnooc  be  readwfthoat  teas.   The  intensky 
of  her  yearnmg,  her  tenderncM.  her  iiiMiiiiia  Jr  nfiii 

painful.  But  she  always  knows  how  to  expound  agony 
into  renovation^  She  sees  the  baghtness  of  a  greatio  J 
falhng  across  w«M  Btefltofc»«ii,  beams  Sfagro^ 
mg  sunrise,  and  she  ever  poiirts  tnii  M^  Hm  ,1^^  a«| 
^though  Hood's  work  in  huma«tarian  poetry  is  limited 
to  two  powerful  poems,  and  he  has  nothing  of  Mts 
Browning's  fo^  ^  / 

that  while  he  attacks  society  he  't  mm  iiiihipilU  J  L 
^e  Christian  faith  which  enabled  WmtTbThis  hanl 

"Lo^s^A^rSL""' n""  '^>''"^' 
.M^  i^^' .  ^ ^  "P  *y  »«d  follow  Me,"  e». 
abled  him  also  tm  believe  that  thraugh  ttm  Om^mm 

the  hrUmg  of  society  wouU  come.  For  to  the 


176  THE  MAKERS  OF  SNGUSH  FOSIBT 

true  social  gospel  there  must  always  be  something  mora 
ttan  vehemence,  and  something  better  than  violence: 
there  must  be  the  message  and  counsel  of  reconstructioii. 
and  the  hope  of  fMl  triumph  and  mllleiinium. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  large  claim  to  make  for  the  writer  of 
the  Song  of  the  Shirt  that  he  was  unconsciously  a  great 
voice  in  inaugurating  a  new  movement  in  poetry:  but 
we  have  to  remember  that  single  poems  have  more  than 
once  proved  epoch-making  in  Utemture.  But  it  ii  cer- 
tainly a  vaUd  contention  in  any  case,  that  the  poet  is 
frequently  the  secret  force  from  which  national  tendenda 
aadpmpoNsarebom.  ^cnoenoci 

It  takes  a  soul 

To  move  a  body ;  it  ukes  a  high-souled  man 
To  move  the  masses  even  to  a  cleaner  s^ ; 
It  takes  the  ideal  to  blow  an  inch  aride 
The  dnst  of  the  actual ;  and  your  Fouriers  ftHsd. 
Becaaae  not  poeu  enough  to  understand 
ThM  Ml  develops  fian  widdo. 

It  J  flie  humanitarian  pmsion  of  poets  like  Hood  and 
Mrs.  Browning  that  do  for  more  than  we  think  to  soften 
life  with  charity,  and  inspire  it  wilh  sacrifice  and  compas- 
Mon.  Of  course  both  Hood  and  Mre.  Browning  were 
not  humanitarian  poets  alone.  Mrs.  Browning  is  the  un- 
contested queen  of  English  song,  and  her  woric  Is  various 
and  wonderful.  The  strength  of  her  affections,  the  ardour 
Of  her  thought,  the  devoutness  of  her  spirit,  are  qualities 
quite  as  naariced  as  the  tenderness  and  breadth  of  her 
sympathies.  But  when  we  come  to  ettiniate  the  most 
enduring  force  in  her  poetry,  we  find  it  to  be  its  hunumi- 
tirian  F«ssion.   It  was  that  which  inspired  not  only  her 

^t^l?'^  *^  ^  Ragged  Schools,  but 

the  gretfwt,  If  the  moat  tmeqnal,  of  aU  her  poemt,ij»w« 


™»IAS  HOOD  AND  MBaBROWNINQ  Iff 

could  Im  <^med  no  pUce  among  the  chief  literary 
forces  of  our  time.   Aa  it  k  m  h«m  i„         .  ^ 
.  to  ertimate  the  rare 

quality  of  his  genius  as  much  by  its  intimatiom  m  in  aZ 

wouW  «ot  have  been  to  great  a  poet,  however,  and  she 
would  certainly  have  missed  the  grerter  porthi  of 

S^n^V  A  °^  »y™P«*y  Mrs. 

awning  Stands  supreme,  and  the  noblest  outbursts  of 

her  sympitlijr  were  caused  bytocial  inequalities,  sorrows 

and  njartyrdoms.   It  is  for  this  reason^  pSL^^:; 

a  hundred  other  things  which  might  beVaiV^^tT^ 

gemus  and  her  poetry,  we  fix  on  this  dominant  aspect  of 

her  life-work,  nor  perhaps  wotdd  the  have  wished  it^. 

the  dust  of  Hood  is.  «  He  sang  the  Son^  of  the  sl^r 
^  to  have  wntto,  the  Cry  of  the  Ckildren  and  AurJm 
t^  f  ^  IS^J^^  even  for  one  of  the  mot  rarely- 

gifted  wnt«»  who  IM.  eittfchad  the  wwfcl  of  &S 
poetry.  •  " 


xvm 


LORD  TENNYSON.   GENERAL  CHAE- 
ACTERISTICS 

Mtn  Mt  Stmtnty,  lJM{$hikirt,  Augvt  5,  rSog.  Pnm  Ij 
Tm  Bntknu  fubUikti  iy  J.  Jtikstg,  Lutk,  7*^7.  Pumst 
tU^  Ifrtult  pmUbM  Ptmt,     tm  9$hmt$  (Mumi), 

1842.  Tht  Prinmi,  1847.  MimtrUm,  i8jo.  Bttsmt 
fMt-Uwrt*t$  in  tht  samt  jiar.  Msud,  iSjJ.  Tht  lijUs  »f  tht 
MiiV»  1859  :  nmfhtti,  Jt88s.  '864.  OJftrti 

Md  Mtftti  4  Pttragt,  j88j.   mm  6,  »mki 

it  Wtttmiuittr  JU^,  Ottthtr  i», 

WHEN  we  come  to  the  name  of  Tennyson  ..e 
do  well  to  pause,  for  in  his  many-sidedness  he 
represents  more  fully  than  any  other  poet  of 
Mr  dtjr  ^  com^ktx.  thoc^t  and  activitict  of  the  cen- 
tury in  which  his  lot  ha:  been  cast.  Seldom  has  a  poeft 
fiune  grown  more  slowly  or  secarely,  and  never  has  a 
poefs  career  been  crowned  with  a  larger  degree  of 
worldly  niccen.  It  it  now  more  titan  half  a  centufy 
since  his  first  slender  volume  of  poems  appeared.  At 
that  date  Christopher  North,  otherwise  Professor  Wilson, 
and  the  Edinburgh  reviewers  were  in  the  full  heyday  of 
their  power,  and  exercised  a  dominance  in  critidim  whldi 
it  is  difficult  for  us  to  understand  to-day.  A  new  poet 
in  those  days  had  to  fear  ridicule  more  than  indiflference, 
a  position  which  may  now  be  said  to  be  entirely  reveraed. 
By  turning  to  that  section  of  tiie  confide  world  of  Ten- 
qwm  headed  Juvenilia,  we  can  otn^ves  jn^  friuttww 

178 


X^MB>  nOVNTBON 

•  '  pwollc  Miaiioa.  The  vohune  a  not 
merely  slender  in  bulk,  b«t  MmBi  rfMTfaT «u.im» 

which  are  to  ihttmeeBMUMwrofKcrti.  ThetoMaUhf 
of  Keats'  wont  style  is  as  apparei«  « the  i 
Mg  of  his  best  Tain;,  Car  tottaaet.  thk 


The  Ambraos  WMF*  oatwdMi. 
The  babbling  runnel  crispeth* 
Tht  hollow  gnt  repUttfa, 


Thii  it  weak  with  the  peculiar  weakness  of  V— *»  •  fk. 
stnimng  after  effect  by  th.  «.  of  ««»««o«^ 2^ 

fected  forms  of  speech. 

There  are.  however,  splendid  indications  of  true  and 
Cratrine  power  aaid  much  that  is  weak  and  imitative 
Jfmana  is  a  piece  oTpowerAil  pdiitfa»,«fc»,wS^«arf 
tent  artistic  taste  intention,  and  finish.   Finer  stiU  toi 

too  ^  bOmi^  lm  m  cotouring.  but  no  onecanflyito 
frt  III,  cfctmi  of  wenh  fa  aoeh  Ifaei  a.  Ae,e : 

At  ■%hlBi|  riudlop  nutUng  thro* 
The  low  and  blooming  foliage,  drove 

I?!^y*"?«"**'^«^««Mtciwe 
The  dtroMhadoirs  ia  dM  bhw : 
Bf  gaiden-porche*  on  the  brim, 

The  coitly  doors  flaiy  open  wide. 
Gold  glittering  throogh  lanpli^  4hii, 
Airf^poideied  aofat  on  each  tide} 
n  soadi  it  «M  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  print 

OTfoed  Haraoa  AlnacMd. 


MICROCOPY  RESOUJTION  TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


Ite  THE  1CAKEB8  OF  tSBfOUBB  FOEXET 


ia  fiaeiiaK  of  wotiniittiihJp  depdi  of  fedi^ 
Dtsifted  Hauu,  the  Dying  Swan,  and  (Vmm  take  an 
easy  precedence.  In  the  second  of  these  poems  there  is 
that  which  goes  further  to  ensure  a  poet  the  attention  of 
tiie  puUte  anytiiing  dse— tiiere  is  dirtinctiveneM 
and  originality.  The  Dying  Swan  was  sufficient  at  ouce 
to  stamp  Tennyson  as  an  original  poet.  In  its  perfectly 
accurate  depiction  of  Nature  it  may  remind  us  somewhat 
of  Wonhwutth,  but  it  is  a  mere  suggestion,  and  die  st^ 
is  wholly  different  Wordsworth's  has  been  described  as 
the  pure  style  in  poetry ;  Tennyson's  as  the  ornate.  The 
bond  of  likeness  is  in  the  fidelity  of  each  poet  to  the 
actual  fiwts  of  Nature.  Wordsworth  never  drew  a  pic- 
ture of  mountain  solitude,  or  lake  scenery,  more  sinqply 
true  to  fact  than  the  picture  this  young  Lincolnshire 
poet  gives  of  the  great  open  spaces  of  the  fen-country, 
with  tiieir  breadtii  of  sky  and  for-stretdiing  tditnde, 
which  is  almost  desolation,  and  their  gleaming  water- 
courses fretting  eveiywhare,  like  silver  threads  tiw  waste 
d  grera. 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild,  and  bare. 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air. 
Which  bad  buik  up  everywhere 
An  vaderroof  of  dokfnl  gray. 

«        «        •       •  • 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on. 
And  took  tfw  leedHopa  as  k  weat 
•        *        «       *  • 

One  willow  o'er  the  river  wept 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  ; 

Above  in  die  wind  was  the  swallow, 

Ouidiv  itself  at  Its  own  wQd  wffl, 
Aad  tu  duo'  the  marish  green,  and  Mffl 

Ihe  taafkd  watercourses  slept. 
Shot  ow  wMi  pBifli,  and  giMS,  asA  jr^Bowa 


TiOBD  TEmrEBcnr 


isi 


The  seme  of  desoktkm  is  complete  It  is  not  con- 
veyed to  the  mind  by  a  single  vivid  toudi,  in  tiw  iwy^wff 

of  Wordsworth,  but  by  a  series  of  cumulative  efiects, 
which  are  equally  striking.  It  is  not  wonderful  that  a 
poem  like  ^  thoakl  arrest  the  attention  of  a  mind  like 
Christopher  North's.  The  first  volume  oi  a  poet  has 
rarely  contained  anything  so  full  of  conscious  strength, 
and  so  complete  in  its  mastery  of  the  art  of  poetry,  as 
diis  padietic  picture  of  tbe  Dying'  Swam. 

Christt^er  North — ^"rust>%  crusty  Ott^tbplMr''— 
Tennyson  afterwards  called  him,  was  perhaps  more  con- 
scious of  the  weakness  of  the  young  poet  than  of  his 
strengtii.  In  1832,  when  tiie  famous  *•  Hadcwood  "  criti- 
cism appeared,  Wordsworth  was  still  a  rode  <rf'  <rfienoe  ft» 
the  critics,  and  gibes  and  insult  had  not  yet  ceased  to  fol- 
low him  to  his  solitude  at  Grasmere.  Seven  years  were 
to  tiapKt  before  Oxfimd  was  to  recognize  his  greatness, 
eleven  years  before  the  Laureateship  was  his.  It  wm  an 
unpropitious  hour  for  poets.  There  had  come  a  great  ebb 
tide  in  poetry,  perhaps  a  natural  result  of  that  extraor- 
dimuy  outtHOSt  of  lyric  splendour  wiQi  whidi  the  names 
of  Shelley  and  Keats  are  associated.  Robert  Soutfaey 
was  Laureate,  and  an  age  which  had  enthroned  Southey  as 
Laureate  might  well  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  voice  of  Ten- 
nysmi.  Upon  tiie  whole  it  is  greatiy  to  tiie  credit  <d 
Professor  Wilson  that  he  had  discrimination  enough  to 
see  anything  at  all  in  the  humble  volume  of  poems  by 
Alfred  Tennyson,  which  was  sent  him  for  review ;  and  he 
took  occaskm  to  |^  the  young  poet  some  ^f*rftltiA 
advice,  for  wl^  he  had  homiltty  and  dkcaaamA  to 
be  thankful. 

The  cardinal  error  of  these  early  poems  ProfessM* 
WiImb  was  Icectt  eaougfa  to  diMem  at 


m  THE  IfAXSBS  OF  BTOLIBB  FOBIBY 


ivliatlieadlad'«inerility."  There  wm  a  lortctf  unwhole- 
some sadness  about  them,  a  distasteful  melancholy,  a 

mawkishness  of  tone  and  subject  It  may  be  added  that 
the  note  of  restrained  and  tender  melandioly  has  always 
been  one  of  tiie  dtief  fleatures  of  Tennyson's  poetry.  It 
is  not  obtrusive,  but  it  is  pervasive ;  it  is  tardy  Utter  or 
cynical,  but  it  is  always  there.  It  is  apparent  in  the 
choice  of  subject,  even  in  these  early  poems.  Death  and 
change  strike  tiw  key-note  of  the  volume.  Mariana  "  in 
tiie  moated  grange"  cries — 

I  am  awearjr.  aweary. 
Would  God  dut  I  wen  dead  I 

Oaa  of  tfie  iweelest  of  Hnt  woagt  Is— 

or  Ike  monlderint  fowets ; 
«         «  •        •  •  ' 

The  tir  is  damp,  and  hushed,  and  close. 
As  a      man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

The  fine  faalhd  of  Orumm  'a  a  ballad  of  death,  and  iht 
Pying  Swan,  although  it  rises  into  a  voice  of  noUe 
music  in  its  close,  is  nevertheless  a  poem  of  desolation 
and  sorrow.  And  over  and  above  all  this,  a  large  part  of 
tte  volume,  no  fewer  tfian  five  poems  Indeed,  are  devoted 
to  the  depiction  of  various  types  of  womanhood.  Sweet- 
ness there  ts  in  the  volume,  but  not  strength ;  and  the 
sweetness  is  cloying  rather  than  piercing.  It  is  not  the 
voice  of  ^  strong  and  hopeful  man,  but  of  die  poet 
touched  with  an  incurable  melancholy  of  thought  and 
outlook.  Yet  if  melancholy  strikes  the  key-note  of  the 
whole,  it  is  not  less  true  that  the  melody  is  really  new 
tad  striUflg.  Tlie  ftnrt  poem  bean  Oe  tmdeMMe  of  A 


tin  I 


Mthtfyt  and  io  the  word  Tennyson  shows  an  exact  ap> 
predatioo  of  hk  own  poweit.  Mdodious  he  ahmys  iL 

No  poet  has  ever  had  a  profounder  knowledge  of  the  laws 
of  metrical  music.  It  is  the  melody  of  his  phrase  that 
carries  it  home  to  the  memory,  not  less  than  its  felid^. 
Any  studoits  of  Tecnyioa  on  recaB  9X  wiU  aoona  of 
lines  which  ding  to  the  menuxy  by  the  dwm  of  their 
own  exquisite  music. 

Take  sudi  examples  as  these  ^— 

From  TUkomui 

WUk  moil  Ike  a  adst  roM  fano  lowm. 
From  Ulysses: 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peen 
Far  mi  die  ringing  plains  of  windy  Ttoy. 

From  the  Mncess: 

Myriads  of  rimlets  hurrying  thro'  the  Iaw% 
The  hmms  of  doves  ia  immemorial  elms, 

In  tiiese  last  Uaes  tben  is  an  overpowcrinf  imagina- 
tive charm,  something  almost  magical  in  its  bewitchment, 
which  makes  us  think  of  the  words  of  Keats,  that  to  him 
a  fine  phrase  was  an  intoxicating  delight  It  is  mdody, 
tile  finest  and  moat  magical  melody  of  wMdi  words  are 
capable.  Thc^  is  nothing  in  the  early  poems  of  Tenny 
son  to  match  such  exquisite  phrasing  as  this,  but  there 
are  nevorthdess  sure  indications  of  where  the  real  power 
of  the  poet  lay.*  It  wee  flie  advent  of  an  intaiBely  aitiH 
tic  mind,  palpitatingly  alive  to  the  vision  and  power  <A 
beauty,  touched  with  the  artist's  ecstasy,  and  with  the 
artist's  corresponding  melancholy,  keen,  subtle,  delicately 


184  THE  MAKERS  OP  ENGLISH  POETRY 

poised,  possessing  the  secret  of  loveliness  rather  than  of 
rude  vigour;  it  was  the  advent  of  such  a  mind  into  the 
worid  of  Eni^  poetiy  nAidi  was  signalized  by  that 
slender  volune  of  PMni  fagr  AUred  Tauiyson,pttt>Iidied 

in  1830. 

But  bright  as  were  the  indications  of  poetic  genius  in 
tiie  eariiest  work  d  Tennyson,  few  could  have  dared  to 
augur  from  them  the  height  of  excdleace  to  which  tiie 
poet  subsequently  attained.   A  yet  severer  critic  than 
Wilson  was  Lockhart,  who  reviewed  the  poems  in  the 
Qn^rttrfy  Rtview,  and  it  is  noticeable  that  ahnost  every 
suggestion  of  Lockhart  was  hereafter  adopted  by  Temiy- 
son.    He  had  the  sense  to  take  the  advice  of  his  critics, 
u>  rid  himself  of  puerilities,  to  be  patient,  to  dare  to  in- 
vestigate and  grapple  with  his  own  fiuilts,  to  enter  upon 
a  course  of  arduous  labour  and  invincible  watrhfiilnrw, 
to  practice  not  merely  the  earnest  culture  of  art,  but  also 
to  seek  the  self-restraint  of  art;  and  he  has  fully  justified 
tiieir  presage  that  lie  had  in  him  the  making  of  a  great 
poet.   Poeby  has  not  been  to  him  a  pastime,  but  tiie 
supreme  passion  and  toil  of  life.   Again  and  again  he 
has  polished  and  remoulded  his  earlier  poems,  not 
always,  perhaps,  to  tiieir  advantage,  but  always  ^rith  tlLe 
intent  of  making  tfiem  more  perfect  in  metrical  harmmy, 
and  more  complete  and  concise  in  poetic  workmansh  p. 
The  melody  has  grown  with  the  years ;  it  has  become 
more  subtte,  more  peaetrating,  more  magical.   He  has 
carried  the  art  of  metrical  construction  to  a  height  of 
perfection  never  before  attempted  in  English  poetry.  It 
is  difficult  to  find  a  false  rhyme,  a  slovenly  stanza,  or  a  halt- 
ing metre  in  aU  the  great  bulk  of  his  completed  workk 
As  an  example  of  the  infinite  laboriousness  of  tnw 
poetic  art  there  can  be  no  fiacrexan^ple.  And  in  variety 


9 


of  subject  he  has  but  one  rival,   He  ha*  traated  Hia 

romantic,  the  antique,  the  domestic  life  of  the  world 
with  equal  skill.    History  and  theolc^.  art  and  science, 
l^endaiy  lore  and  modem  social  problems  find  constant 
reflection  and  presentment  in  his  poetry.  Some  of 
his  poems  are  so  dearly  hewn  that  they  are  like  mighty 
fragments  of  the  antique;  some  treat  of  English 
peasant  life;  some  of  fairy  lore,  some  of  rdigtous 
fancy,  some  of  social  dreams  and  yeamingn ;  in  ^mie 
the  theme  is  slight,  but  the  slightness  of  the  theme  is 
forgotten  in  the  excellence  of  the  workmanship;  in 
some  tiie  tiwme  is  as  solemn  as  life  and  death,  and 
touches  issues  which  are  as  old  as  human  thoiq^ 
"  Rapt  nuns,"  it  has  been  said,  ''English  ladies,  peasant 
girls,  artists,  lawyers,  farmersr-in  short,  a  tolerably 
cmnplete  representatimi  oi  Ac  miscdlaneous  public 
of  the  present  day,"  jo^  one  anodmr  in  bk  pktmv 
galleries.   True,  the  cosmopolitan  note  of  Browning 
is  wanting;  but  if  Tennyson  has  not  the  catholic 
sympathies  of  Browning,  he  hu  succeeded  in  touching 
with  the  utmost  felicity  many  aspects  <a  Eit^Uk  Hfe 
which  his  great  rival  has  ignored.   And  his  mood  and 
style  are  as  various  as  his  themes.   In  such  poems  as 
/Vm  we  have  a  Wordsworthian  8ir»nlicity  of  diction,  a 
coohiess  and  purity  of  colouring  almost  cold  tia 
severity.   In  such  poems  as  Maud  and  LockOey  Halt 
we  have  the  utmost  elaboration  of  ornate  imagery  and 
effect   He  can  be  severely  simple  ami  diast^  soisuous, 
classic  and  grotesque,  subtle  and  passiom^  ptwing 
with  the  ease  of-periLct  mastery  from  love  to  «ifaiitffT, 
from  the  wail  of  a  sombre  pessimism  to  the  exaltation 
and  nptm«  of  Hre  triumphant  lover.  He  can  even  be 
luuBoroui,  aad  tauOn^  kanoroui  too^M  te  audi  ft 


JBB  POXTK  Y 


poem  m  tlic  iWmllm*  Aniwr.  It  ii  probably  in  thh 
diversity  of  gifts  that  the  great  secret  of  TMaytooli  widt 

popularity  is  to  be  found.  He  touches  many  classes  of 
readers,  many  varieties  of  mind.  Of  his  limitations,  his 
peculiarities  of  view  and  outlook,  his  attitude  to  leligioa 
•ad  politics,  his  pervading  melanchdy  and  the  causet  of 
it,  we  shall  see  more  as  we  devote  more  particular  r  n- 
tion  to  his  works ;  but  enough  has  been  said  to  jn 
wby  ft  ia  diat  he  has  won  not  merdy  wide  bv.  Aound 
popularity ;  and  not  merely  popularity,  but  fame  and 
success  such  as  no  other  English  poet  has  ever  enjoyed 
in  the  brief  period  during  which  his  work  was  a^ually 
being  doaet  when  tlie  fruHi  of  iuooeM  were  keeoert  to 
tfie  tiMc^  and  sMtk  allnriag  to  CheaodbMoa. 


TENNYSON^  TREATMENT  OF  NATURE 

THE  variety  of  Tennyson's  work  makes  the  task 
of  anranging  it  more  than  usually  difficult  Cer. 
tafai  portkMM  of  his  woric  are  difccUy  philosofdi- 
ical,  and  are  meant  to  be  elucidations  or  solutioM  of 
some  of  the  deepest  problems  of  humanity.  Others  are 
surcharged  with  moumfulness,  and  might  be  called  lamen- 
tation;  ^gga  over  dead  hopes,  hxt  glories  ofchivaby, 
or  the  bitter  presage  of  future  trouble  travelling  towards 
us  in  the  development  of  social  perils.  Others  are  purely 
fanciful,  lyrics  finished  with  aiiy  grace,  or  poems  breath- 
ing tlie  endMataeat  of  Mty  lore.  Butsudi  a  dasslfka- 
tion  as  this  is  incoirtplete,  and  fails  to  yield  the  result 
which  a  just  critici-^m  desires.  Broadly  speaking,  there 
are  certain  great  on  which  all  true  poets  have 

sonwOiiv  to  ir '  .  sul|^cti  are  mtture,  uniimi, 
life,  politics,  and  r^.  ^>or..  Nature  needs  no  definHkw; 
under  the  head  of  woman  we  must  include  all  that  per- 
tains to  love  and  chivahy ;  under  the  head  of  life,  the 
general  view  of  huosan  action  and  society  wliidi  dMa- 
guishcs  a  poet ;  under  politics,  the  poet's  view  of  pro|p«M 
and  the  future  of  the  race ;  under  religion,  what  the  poet 
has  to  say  about  the  devout  tongings  of  humanity,  its 
sorrows  and  tliCir  solution,  the  future  and  its  ptwniNi. 
It  will  be  found  that  under  this  classification  the  works 
of  all  great  poets  can  be  readily  placed.  It  is  the  view  of 
Nitture  which  is  the  distinguishing  feature  in  Wocd»> 

ur 


188  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  FOEIBY 


worth ;  it  is  the  view  of  woman— gross,  carnal,  callous 
—which  is  the  damning  feature  in  Byron;  it  is  the 
view  of  religion  which  lends  such  paramount  interest 
to  the  poetry  of  Arnold  and  Browning.  Let  us  begin, 
then,  by  wnnninhig  what  Tenaysm  hM  to  say  aiwat 
Nature. 

We  have  aheady  seen  that  to  Shelley  Nature  was 
something  oKMre  tiian  an  abstract  {dirase ;  she  was  sonio> 

thing  alive,  a  radiant  and  potent  spirit,  a  glorious  power 
filling  the  mind  with  infinite  delight,  and  drawing  out  the 
spirit  of  man  in  ecstatic  communion.   The  first  thing  we 
note  about  Tennyson  is  tiiat  Nature  is  not  to  him  wbtA 
she  was  to  either  Shelley  or  Wordsworth.   He  m  whera 
r^ards  Nature  as  a  living  presence.   He  at  no  time  listens 
for  her  voice  as  for  the  voice  of  God.   To  Shelley  Nature 
was  Love ;  to  Wotdswmtii  she  was  Thought;  to  Tenny- 
son she  is  neither.    He  does  not  habitually  regard  Nature 
as  the  vesture  of  the  Highest— the  outward  adumbration 
of  the  invisible  God.    He  does  not  even  r^ard  her  with 
the  purely  sensuous  deUght  of  Keats.  And  the  reason 
for  this  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  sympathies  of  Tennyson 
are  so  various  that  there  is  no  excess  in  any ;  it  is  the  full 
play  of  an  exquisitely-balanced  mind  that  we  see,  rather 
than  the  fine  ecstasy  cf  an  entiiusiastic  artist  To  Wwds- 
worth  Nature  was  everything,  and  on  the  solitary  hiUsbe 
worshipped  before  her  altars,  and  in  the  voice  of  the 
winds  and  waters  he  heard  her  breathings,  and  caught  the 
message  of  her  wisdom.  Apart  from  men,  in  solemn 
loneliness,  incurious  about  the  crowded  life  of  cities,  or 
the  vast  movements  of  the  troubled  sea  of  human 
tiiought,  he  stood,  silent  and  entranced,  waiting  for  rev- 
dations  of  that  Etenul   Towtr,  whoae  splendour 
tfowed  upon  the  hills  at  dawn,  and  whose  miiyf  uttered 


TENNYSON'S  TUBATOTTNT  OW  NATDU  m 


itself  out  of  the  stany  spaces  at  ttt  wind-nrapt  1  

at  night  But  Tennyson  has  never  professed  himself  in- 
curious about  the  progress  <^  human  opinion,  or  indiffer- 
ent to  dw  life  of  dtics.  WoRhwortii's  was  the  jmesdy 
temperament,  Tennyson's  is  tiie  artistic.  Th«  grwt  dnuaa 

of  human  life  has  not  been  permitted  to  pass  him  un- 
noticed. He  has  found  joy  in  the  refinements  of  wealth, 
interest  in  tiw  progress  of  society,  passionate  absorption 
in  the  theological  controversies  of  his  time.  A  certain 
dramatic  interest  has  always  drawn  him  towards  the  tragic 
realities  of  past  history  and  of  present  life.  He  has 
tlw  qnidc  eyt  of  the  sdeirtific  observer,  or  of  tiw  artistic 
draughtsman,  but  little  of  the  rapt  contemplatiott  of  tiie 
seer.  Thus  it  follows  that,  while  Nature  petpttuaHy 
colours  his  writings,  he  has  nothing  new  to  fucy  riwttt 
her. 

There  is,  however,  one  quality  whtdi  distinguishes  his 
view  of  Nature  from  that  of  other  poets,  viz.,  the  scien- 
tific accuracy  of  his  observation.  Nature  to  him  is  neither 
Love  nor  Thought:  she  Is  Law.  He  is  full  of  the 
modern  scientific  spirit.  He  sees  everywhcK  die  move- 
ment of  law,  and  the  fulfillment  of  vast  purposes  which 
are  part  of  a  universal  order.  He  is  under  no  delusion  as 
to  the  meaning  of  Nature;  so  fiur  from  being  Love,  she 
is  "  red  in  tooth  and  claw  with  negHnt."  The  conclutimt 
of  modern  science  Tennyson  has  accepted  with  unques- 
tioning faith,  and  the  only  factor  which  preserves  him  from 
an  unpoetical  view  of  Nature  is  the  religious  feith.wfatch 
makes  him  perceive  Nature  not  as  a  mechanical  engine 
of  fate,  bi«t  as  ai)rocess  of  law  leading  to  nobler  life  and 
lai^er  being.  That  is  the  mission  of  law :  not  to  slay,  but 
to  make  alive;  not  to  ftilfiD  a  blind  oomie,  but  to  work 
out  a  Divine  pnipoae,  and  a  dtvhier  Bfe  for  man,  ia  tiioie^' 


190  THE  MAKKR8  OF  SHOLISH  FQBIBT 


far-diiUnt  cydet  which  eye  hath  not  saM,  Mr  lutk  il 
entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive. 

TbM  cooMt  the  ttatelier  Eden  back  to  men ; 

Then  nigfk  tiw  world's  grt«t  bridals,  chaste,  and  cabs ; 

Umi  ipriegi  tte  CfewaiiV  race    hMMM  ktai. 

In  other  words,  Tennyson  sees  Nature  wttfa  tfM  eye  of 
tile  evolutionist,  and  traces  through  all  her  processes  the 
fulfiUment  of  a  Divine  wisdom,  which  means  well  towards 
man,  and  all  that  it  has  made— 

One  God,  one  faiw,  one  elMMOi. 

And  one  far-off  Divine  event 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 

On  the  other  hand,  because  Tennyson  says  little  that  is 
new  about  Nature,  it  mist  not  be  asstmied  tt«at  he  does 
not  love  her.   On  the  contrary,  he  has  studied  her  wMi 

unwearied  fidelity,  for  which  his  knowledge  of  science  has 
probably  given  him  sharpened  instinct  and  patience.  It 
would  be  •  curkHMly  interesting  study  to  mark  the  wide 
diflference  between  even  Shelky's  iMoad  generalisations 
of  Nature,  accurate  as  they  are,  and  the  minute  patience 
which  Tennyson  has  devoted  to  every  little  touch  of  de- 
piction, in  which  douds,  (Mr  Urds,  or  woods  are  repre- 
sented to  us.  Tennyson's  mind  is  not  merely  exquisite^ 
sensitive  to  natural  beauty,  but  it  is  deeply  tinged  with  the 
characteristics  of  that  scenery  in  which  his  ewly  man- 
hood was  passed.  The  gray  hillside,  the  « ridged 
wolds,"  the  wattled  sheepfold,  the  long  plain,  the  "My 
mornings  on  the  fens,  the  russet  colouring  of  autumn— 
this  is  scenery  such  as  England  abounds  in,  and  is 
especially  chaiwteristic  of  Lincolnshiie  Even  more  diK 
tinctly  dmwtt  from  tiie  in  tomnr  are  mA  Knes  m 
these: 


TsaxsYmmTBEk'. 


T  or  HATm  m 


And  tbt  cffcpinf  ibomm.  and  clMBbtring  wmiB» 
And  tbt  wiUow-braachM,  hoar  ud  daak* 
Aai  tht  wavy  tMl  of  tfM  mukhv  iMdi, 

And  the  lilvery  marish-flowen  that  throog 
Tbt  dttolatt  cmin  and  pools  aawng 

In  this  single  poem  of  the  Dying  Sukm,  as  we  have  seen, 
there  is  an  extraordinary  acawnuiatioa  of  eflects,  drawn 

from  the  sadness  of  Nature,  and  used  with  perfect  skill  to 
enhance  the  pathos  of  the  picture ;  and  the  soughing  of 
the  wind  in  the  Lincolnshire  reeds  is  to  be  heard  in 
many  ant^her  poem  widi  equal  sadnest  and  itlrtinctnw. 

It  is  not  without  interest  to  remurk  that  so  gmtapoct 
as  Tennyson  is  educated  not  amid  the  wonderful  dawns 
and  dottd  scenery  of  the  Lake  diitrict,  but  under  the 
"  doleftd  uaderroof  of  gny**  built  up  eveiywhaia  dMve 
a  flat  country,  where  no  doubt  the  tourist— if  such,  in- 
deed, ever  ventures  into  such  solemn  solitudes  would 

aver  that  dure  is  nothing  picturesque  or  striking.  For  a 
poet  who  wtt  to  express  the  sadnew  and  satiely  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  however,  it  may  be  doubled  if  emore 
appropriate  cradle-land  could  be  discovered. 

No  doubt  it  is  in  part  to  these  natural  influences  iHriA 
surrounded  his  boj^iood  that  the  extraordinary  fiddHy 
of  Tennyson's  descriptions  of  Nature  is  to  be  attribute ' 
Where  there  was  little  to  describe  it  wis  natural  that  the 
power  of  cAservation  diould  be  trained  to  minute  ac- 
curacy. Miss  Thackeray  tells  us  that  he  oaoe  asked  her 
to  noticr  whether  the  skylark  did  not  come  down  side- 
ways on  the  wing.  This  is  extremely  characteristic  of 
Tennyson's  haMt  in  tiie  observation  of  Nature.  He 
never  coins  a  false  phrase  about  the  humUetl  flower  that 
btows,  for  the  sake  of  the  fdidty  of  the  phmw  and  at 


192  THE  BfAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  FOEXBT 


the  expense  of  the  tints  of  the  flower.  He  tells  us  pie- 
cisely  what  he  has  sttm.  If  he  tells  us  that  in  the  spring 
«  a  fuller  criinsoii  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast,"  and  a 
**  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnished  dove,"  we  nuy  be 
quite  sure  that  he  has  watched  the  robin  and  the  dove, 
and  written  with  his  eyes  on  them  rather  than  on  the 
paper.  The  sidelong  descent  of  the  lark  is  a  thing  to  be 
noted,  tii^  when  he  comes  to  speak  of  it  he  may  use  a 
phrase  that  even  the  scientific  naturalist  would  approve. 
The  consequence  of  this  fidelity  to  Nature  is  that  Tenny- 
son is  constantly  startling  with  the  vivid  accuracy  of 
hk  (kscriptions.  We  say  again  and  ^[ain, «  That  is  so ; 
I  have  seen  it,"  and  the  picture  is  ineffaceably  stamped 
upon  the  memory.  Sometimes  it  is  done  with  a  single 
phrase,  or  even  a  concentrated  word.  The  writer  will 
not  soon  foiget  how  tiirot^^at  <me  autumn  he  was 
haunted  by  tiie  phrase, — 

AH  bi  a  desA-damb,  aMsaii-diij^iiif  ^oem. 

Again  -nd  again,  as  he  climbed  the  Dorsetshire  hills,  the 
line  met  him  at  the  summit :  for  there  lay  the  death- 
dumb  land,  the  ?'>n?  plain  with  its  dim  wisps  of  fog 
afaready  beginning  to  rise,  witiiout  vdce  or  sound;  tiM 
stillness  of  the  dying  season  like  the  silence  of  a  death- 
chamber  ;  and  just  perceptible  in  the  near  hedgerow  the 
constant  drip  of  the  dew,  like  the  falling  of  unavailing 
tears.  Let  any  one  choose  a  very  quiet,  gray  day  in  hte 
autumn,  when  there  has  been  a  previous  night  of  fog,  and 
stand  in  a  solitary  place  and  listen,  as  the  night  begins  to 
fill  the  land,  and  he  will  feci  how  exquisite  is  the  truth 
of  die  descripticm  oS  As&aa  cmbii^  home,  ami  '•"■nHftf 
skmiy  to  his  culi»— 

ftn  in  i  ikisth  rtiniih,  ■iitiiMii  <lilMii^glw 


TENNTaOIPB  TKBATifWWT  OF  NATI 


The  nuw  vhrtd  pictimrial  power  ii  iBartnted  in 
other  passages  which  will  readily  occur  to  the  Tenny 
sonian  student.  How  admirable  a  touch  of  depiction  ii 
this :  it  is  the  hour  of  sunset  on  the  marshes,  when 

The  kme  hem  fogea  his  melancholy. 
Lets  down  l&odier  kg,  sad.  sintching,  dieoH 
or  goodfy  sapper  hi     (Bstaat  poolB. 

*•  A  fuU  sea,  i^ued  wttii  muffled  nMonlight,"  is  tiie  per- 
fect vignette  of  what  he  once  saw  at  Torquay;  a  water- 
fall "slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,"  a  sketch 
taken  on  the  Pyrenees ;  "  a  great  black  cloud  draw  in- 
ward firom  die  deep,"  an  etching  made  upon  the  top  of 
Snowdon.  From  boyhood  he  loved  the  sea,  and  studied 
it  in  all  its  moods,  with  the  result  that  his  sea-pictures 
are  always  exquisitely  truthful.  In  those  hours  of  «<  wise 
lift  flssricod 


Hie  curled  white  of  the  coming  wave 
QuB'd  la  the  siipMy  sand  bdon  it  bnatak 

and  how 

The  wOd  wave  in  the  wide  north-sea, 
(kten-glimmering  towards  the  snmmit,  bears  wUi  aS 
Its  ilemr  crests  M«f  MSMb  lywtel  tfr  «M» 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbaaia  dw  bade 

And  Um  diat  helms  it 

It  would  be  difficult  for  words  to  attain  to  higher  pictorial 
art  ttan  this :  these  two  verses  are  two  perfect  pictures 
of  the  summer  and  the  winter  tea. 

The  main  point*  to  observe,  therefore,  about  Tennyson 
is,  that  in  him  we  have  the  scientific  observer  and  the 
tttirt,  rafter  tluui  tiie  interpreter  of  Nature.  Words- 
wortlk  intepmii  Tam^wn  dMcribea.    Hn  ii  vitid^ 


194  THE  MAKEBS  OP  ENGLISH  FOETBT 

pictorial,  picturesque;  but  he  has  no  fresh  insight  into 
the  soul  of  things,  save  such  as  his  science  furnishes  him. 
But  if  he  ha$  no  new  gospel  to  preach  us  from  the  book 
of  Nature,  we  may  at  least  rejoice  in  the  perfect  finish 
and  enchantment  of  his  pictures. 

To  this  it  may  be  added  that  these  pictures  are  for  the 
most  part  essentially  Englisli  in  tone,  atmosphere,  and 
subject  Now  and  again,  but  with  great  rareness,  he  hai 
depicted  foreign  scenery,  as  in  the  Dai^:  

IIow  faintly-flushed,  how  phantmn-to. 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  them, 
A  thoaiand  shadowy  pencilled  valleys 
And  MMMry  ddls  in  »  goldea  dr. 

And  the  picture  is  perfect  both  in  glammir  and  &Idfty. 
But  it  is  in  English  pictures  he  excels.  Who  that  has 
seen  the  land  of  Kent  does  not  recognize  tiiis?— 

The  happy  valleys,  half  in  Ught,  and  half 
Far  shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land  of  peace ; 
Gray  halls  alone  among  their  iqassive  groves ; 
Trim  hamlett :  here  and  there  a  rustic  tower 
Half  lost  in  behs  ofhtqi  and  bteaddis  of  wheat ; 
The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream ;  the  aeu; 
A  red  sail  or  a  white ;  and  far  beyond, 
Imagiaed  men  ibaa  seea,  die  sklits  of  Fnuwe. 


I ,  i 


Or  who  does  not  fed  the  truth  of  this  touch  of  rural  life 
in  En(0and? — 

The  goldeii  nmoBB  woodlaad  iceb 
Attwait  the  smoke  of  boiri^  weedsL 

Nor  b  it  only  such  peaceful  scenes  as  tiuse  diat  Teaiiytm 

can  invest  with  the  magic  of  his  art;  he  knows  how  to 
grasp  the  larger  effects  of  Nature,  the  mountain-glooa^ 


TENHYSON'8  TREATMENT  OF  NATURE  195 

the  doud-grandeur,  the  dawn  of  day  or  night  of  tempest, 
and  Mite  than  with  an  imaginative  sldU  and  power  of 
phrase  which  stamp  them  indelibly  m  the  memofy.  For 
let  him  who  has  watched  the  pageant  of  the  dying  day 
say  if  any  human  art  could  more  grandly  fix  in  words  the 
western  doud  effects  than  this 

Yonder  cloud. 
That  rises  upward,  always  higher. 

And  toj^let  round  the  dreary  west, 
A  loomfa^  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 

Or  let  him  who  has  studied  the  warfare  of  wind  and  doud 
and  the  wild  upheaval  and  terror  of  gathering  tempest 
say  if  this  is  not  a  picture  such  as  Turner  would  have  de- 
lighted to  paint,  and  only  he  could  have  puintwi  ia  aB 
its  stern  magnificence :  — 

The  fiirest  cracked,  the  waters  curl'd. 

The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea ; 

And  wildly  dashed  on  tower  and  tree 
The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  worid. 

Nor  could  an  angry  morning  after  tempest  be  IwHw 
painted  than  in  this  one  pregnant  line:  

All  in  a  fieiy  dawaii^,  wild  wfdi  wind. 

Nor  could  the  savage  splendour  of  Alpine  fastnesses. 

P'^P'ce  and  glader  rise  tier  above  tier,  in 
shattered  beauty  and  unvanquishable  strength,  be  better 
brought  home  to  the  imagiaatioa  than  in  this  touch  of 
•olcnin  imagery:— 

The  monstrous  ledges  slope,  and  ^ffl 
Thdr  dioasaad  wreaths  of  dangling  -utrr  inwla 
That  n»  a  nriaMl  purpose  waste  in  air. 


196  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

Nor  has  the  breaking  up  of  a  stom^  sky,  when  the 
clouds  suddenly  lift  as  though  withdrawn  upon  invisible 
pulleys,  and  there  is  light  at  eventide,  ever  been  repre- 
sented better  tiian  in  one  <rf  tite  eaiiiest  (tf  all  these 
poems,  the  immature  and  unequal  EltoMon: — 

Aa  diniider<loiids,  that  hui^  on  high. 
Roof'd  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear. 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere* 

Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky. 

And  for  imaginative  intensity,  sudi  as  the  great  Greek 
poets  would  have  delighted  in,  and  indeed  wholly  in 
their  manner,  it  is  hard  to  excel  the  phrase  in  iriiidi 
Tithonus  describes  the  glory  of  the  dawn :  

And  the  wild  team 
WUch  love  thee,  yearning  for  th«  yoke,  arise 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  th«ir  looseatd 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Or  the  (arewell  of  Ulysses,  when  he  cries:— 

Come,  my  firiendi, 
'Us  not  too  late  to  seek  a  neww  world. 
Push  off,  and.  f&iAag  wen  in  order,  nAe 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  an  the  western  stars  undl  I  die. 

These  arc  but  random  samples  of  the  perfection  to 
which  Tennyson  has  wrought  his  art  in  the  faithful  and 
accurate  depiction  of  Nature.  Every  word  tells :  it  tells 
because  it  is  true,  because  it  expresses  the  very  spirit  of 
the  scene  that  he  would  paint,  not  less  than  its  external 
ritow.  The  hbour  and  ct^ire  idUdi  Ue  bdii^  sudi 
perfect  phrases  as  tiiese  are  immense.  Not  infifequen^ 


TENNYSON'S  TREATMENT  OF  NATURE  197 


the  source  of  some  fine  image  is  to  be  found  in  some  re- 
mote page  of  the  older  poets,  and  part  of  the  charm  of 
the  Temiysonian  jdmse  is  that  it  is  often  rfmthmA-^ 
subtle  echo,  as  it  were,  of  a  more  ancient  music,  iHiidi 
does  not  offend  but  fascinate.  Thus  the  image  of  the 
"  ploughed  sea  "  is  one  of  the  very  oldest  since  the  dawn 
of  language,  and  die  picture  of  tiie  dawn  in  TUttmu 
has  its  coonteipart  in  Macrton's  ndUe  lines — 

Bnt  tee,  the  dapple-gray  coursers  of  the  mom 
Beat  np  the  light  with  their  bright  silver  hooft. 
And  chase  it  through  the  sky.' 

But  the  more  enduring  element  of  beauty  in  such  lines 
is  tiwir  delightful  truthfulness.  "  The  sounding  ftnrrows  ** 
is  an  exact  representation  to  ear  and  eye  of  what  hap- 
pens when  the  heaving  waters  are  suddenly  smitten  with 
the  level  sweep  of  oars.  The  darkness  trampled  into 
flakes  of  fife  is  the  prectse  effect  of  die  instantaneous 
irruption  of  the  splendour  of  the  dawn,  when  die  diin 
clouds  that  lie  across  the  east  are  broken  up  into  floating 
fragments,  and  hang  quivering,  like  golden  flames,  in  the 
ludd  ahr,  and  the  wwkl  lies  still  and  windless,  waiting 
for  die  day.  -  The  fiery  dawn,"  die  great  bunt  of 
streaming  yellow,  not  graduated  into  crimson  or  purple, 
but  all  vast  and  lurid,  like  an  angry  conflagration  in  the 
east,  is  a  spectade  whidi  the  seaman  knows  too  well, 
when  die  night  has  been  "wild  with  wind,**  and  the 
storm  pauses  at  the  dawn,  only  to  gather  strength  for  the 
riotous  havoc  of  the  day.  It  is  the  exact  truth  of  Nature 
whidi  is  fyted  in  phrases  Uke  these.  It  k  die  trudi 
Turner  painted,  the  vision  of  the  miracle  of  Nature 
which  he  strove  with  infinite  toil  and  true  'ntpfrathm  to 


198  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


retain  in  his  immortal  canvases.  And  because  it  is  true 
art,  therefore  it  is  fine  art  Much  that  might  be  said  of 
Natiue,  Teaoysoa  has  not  said;  to  much  that  otfacn 
have  said  he  is  indifferent  But  this  at  least  he  has  done: 
he  has  approached  Nature,  not  with  the  hot  and  hasty 
zeal  of  the  impressionist  but  with  the  cool  eye  of  the 
consummate  artist;  and  every  sketch  of  Nature  which 
he  has  given  us,  whether  of  the  commonplace  or  the 
extraordinary,  is  finished  with  admirable  skill,  and  has 
the  crowning  merit  of  absolute  fidelity,  accuracy,  and 


XX 


TENNYSON:  LOVE  AND  WOMAN 

JUST  as  one  of  the  most  crucial  points  about  a  poet 
is  his  treatment  of  Nature,  so  again,  his  view  of 
Womanhood  affbrds  a  key  to  the  character  <tf  hit 
mind  and  the  quality  of  his  genius.  The  love-poetiy 
of  the  world  is  one  of  its  most  fascinating  inheritances, 
and  ranges  through  many  k^s.  Love  has  always 
furnished  the  impulse  to  poetry,  and  has  <^en  been  Hs 
staple.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  poet  who  has 
nothing  to  say  of  love ;  it  would  be  easy  to  find  many 
poets  who  have  never  written  exquisitely  till  they  became 
lovers.  The  new  divine  warmth  of  thj  heart  has 
liberated  the  faculties  of  the  intellect,  and  has  given 
inspiration  and  insight  to  the  souL  Even  when  the 
warmtii  has  been  sensuous  rather  than  divine,  it  has  not 
the  less  had  some  effect  in  the  liberation  of  the  ndad. 
Burns  displays  his  highest  genius  in  his  love-lyrics. 
Some  of  the  Elizabethan  poets  are  famous  only  by  a 
singlestanxa,oras!ngle  poem,  which  expresses tiiepassimi 
of  the  human  heart  with  such  felicity,  such  delicate  skiB, 
such  fire  and  tenderness,  that  the  wirld  cannot  forget 
their  phrases.  Rossetti  lives  in  the  vision  of  womanhood, 
with  every  sense  perpetually  tingling  to  the  keen  delight 
of  passion.  Even  Wordsworth  kindles  at  the  vision  of 
love :  he  sees  the  ideal  woman  glowing  before  him,  not 
with  any  heat  of  passion  indeed,  but  with  a  calm  and 
qiirtolal  i«£aiice»  iriiich  ii  to  him  a  sacred  flraw, 


900  THE  MAI 


OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


ing  the  spirit  and  purifying  the  heart   Perhaps  the  poet 
of  our  day  least  aflbcted  by  the  enchantment  of  love  is 
Matthew  Arnold.    He  is  too  reticent  (6f  passion,  is  too 
sadly  philosophical  to  sing  the  rapture  of  the  lover. 
But  even  Arnold  has  written  love-verses — not  iospiicd 
lyrics  like  Bums',  but,  nevertiidess,  verses  which  have 
spru^  from  a  lover's  yearning.   Tennyson  is  so  far  from 
an  exception  that  love  forms  the  great  motive  in  all  his 
larger  poems.    Everywhere  he  testifies  to  the  pre- 
eminence and  influence  oi  wmnan.   He  ha*  been  an 
ardent  student  of  womanhood,  and  has  struck  out  with 
admirable  skill  and  genuine  artistic  feeling  many  typical 
portraits  of  womanhood.   He  has  mastered  the  difficult 
secret  o(  how  to  write  voluptuously,  and  yet  retain  the 
bloom  of  a  delicate  and  almost  virginal  purity.  He 
knows  how  to  be  passionate,  but  his  passion  never  passes 
into  that  sensuous  extravagance  which  is  the  sign  of 
weakness.   There  b  always  a  gravity  and  earnestness 
about  it  which  preserves  him  from  an  excess  which  be- 
comes ridiculous.   In  this  he  stands  nearer  to  Words- 
worth than  to  either  Keats  or  Burns.   But  whereas  in 
Wordsworth  woman  has  no  commanding  jrxisition,  and 
is  almost  forgotten  and  dblitr-?ted  in  the  presence  of 
Nature,  in  Tennyson  woman  is  always  preeminent,  and 
tiie  fascination  of  woman  is  at  least  as  strong  as  the 
diann  of  Nature. 

As  with  Byron,  so  wiA  Tennyson,  we  cannot  help 
tracing  the  treatment  of  woman  in  his  poetry  to  the  early 
influences  which  surrounded  his  boyhood.  He  was  neve- 
cut  upon  the  worid,  to  rink  or  swim  as  he  could,  in  tiie 
great  seething  whirlpools  of  sensual  temptation.  He 
carried  with  him  no  evil  heritage  of  passionate  blood,  as 
did  Byron ;  he  was  not  brought  face  to  face  with  any  dar* 


TENNYSON :  LOVE  AND  WOBCAN  201 

ing  theories  of  free-love,  as  was  Shelley ;  he  was  not  de- 
pendent on  the  coarse  orgies  of  village  society  for  rec- 
reation, ai  was  Bums.  He  braaHied  an  atmospheie  of 
refinement  from  the  very  first.  He  was  trained  by  every 
sight  and  influence  of  early  life  into  that  fastidious  purity 
which  characterizes  him.  He  grew  into  vigour  in  what 
might  be  called  the  cloistral  calin  of  clerical  life  in  a  re- 
mote English  village.  The  baser  side  of  buman  life  was 
not  seen ;  the  carnal  meanings  of  love  never  so  much  as 
named ;  the  coarser  aspects  of  passion  were  smothered  in 
floweis  and  fragrances.  Bdiind  all  the  love-fyria  of 
Tennyson  one  sees  the  picture  of  a  calmly-orderedhorae, 
where  domestic  love  moves  like  a  shining  presence,  with 
hands  busy  in  silent  ministrations,  and  heart  full  of  the 
tenderness  of  a  pure  devotion.  The  poitratt  of  Tenny^ 
son's  mother  is  the  key  to  his  reverence  for  womanhood. 
It  is  a  beautiful  and  tender  face,  delicately  moulded, 
lighted  with  a  spiritual  radiance  of  sympathy  and  hope, 
and  yet,  too,  bearing  pathetic  traces  of  resigned  sadness 
and  sorrowful  experience.  We  can  understand  how 
Tennyson  was  preserved  from  the  fatality  of  recklessness, 
how  it  is  he  wore  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life,  and 
ruled  himsdf  with  chivalrous  regard  for  womanhood, 
when  we  study  his  mother's  face.  What  such  a  woman 
must  have  been  in  the  home,  and  what  sort  of  home  it 
must  have  been  where  she  moved  like  a  ministering 
spirit,  we  can  readily  imagine.  And  how  divindy  pure 
and  penetrating  may  be  the  influence  of  such  a  woman 
Tennyson  has  told  us  in  a  passage  of  the  Princess,  which 
might  without  mudi  risk  of  misinterpretation  be  taken  as 
a  personal  remlttiseenee. 

I  loved  her ;  one 
Notkaned,  save  in  gnckmt  beoeliaU  wqrs 


SOS  THE  MAKEBS  OF  £NGLIBH  fOBXBY 


MM  pcrfKt,  nay.  but  fiiU  of  tendtr  wMi^ 
No  angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
la  aqgtl  iaatiacla.  bmtUng  Paradise. 
Wke  looked  aUaathrt  to  her  pUce.  and  yet 
On  tiptoe  seemed  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  pcrteot 
Swayed  to  her  from  their  eibitt    tfiey  movad, 
And  girdled  her  with  music.   Happy  he 
Wth  raeh  a  mother  I  faith  in  womanldnd 
Beats  in  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  h^h 
Come*  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and  fiOl 
Ht  dnB  not  bBad  Us  ioul  with  day. 

Th*5*^  point  to  be  noted,  therefore,  in  Tennyson's 
trntmeiit  of  love  k  hs  consfricuous  purity.  It  is  the  love 
of  the  chivahrous  knight,  not  of  the  Bohemian  profligtte, 
which  he  paints.   His  whole  conception  of  love  is  rever- 
ential  It  is  a  spiritual  passion,  not  an  earthly.    He  per- 
oeim  it  ia  its  spiritual  working,  and  not  in  its  fleshly. 
With  rare  exceptions  he  shuns  altogether  titt  flcdily  m- 
pects  of  love.    One  exception  is  found  among  the  eariy 
poena  in  the  striking  ballad  caUed  7JU  Sisters,  but  this  is 
an  obvioia  imitatioii  of  tiie  andrat  ballad  poetiy,  in 
which  passion  is  indeed  a  prime  motive,  i  A  k  alwi^ 
treated  with  a  healthy  frankness.    But  the  poem  partially 
fails  as  a  perfect  imitation  of  the  anciet  ballad,  simply  be- 
eai«e  Tennyson  caimot  allude  to  unchaste  passion  with- 
out a  bunt  of  terrible  denuaciatioii. 

She  died :  she  went  to  bmnfaig  flame. 
She  mixed  her  ancient  blood  with  shame, 
The  wind  is  howling  ir  turret  and  tree. 

He  leaps  upon  the  desecrator  of  human  love  with  a 
bitter  wrath,  and  with  words  like  the  sword-flash  of  an 
aveagiiiKaqgeL  The  otter  grertewmple  of  Tennyson's 


TENNYSON :  LOVi:;  AND  WOMAN  tM 


treatment  of  the  baser  side  of  love  is  the  unlawful  love  of 
Guinevere.  But  even  here  a|-iun,  he  manifests  the  same 
•tvaacM  ot  avtoging  purity.  Not  by  one  toucn,  one 
veiled  hint  or  implication,  does  he  seek  to  move 
springs  of  evil  concupiscence  in  his  reader.  What  he  sees 
again  is  not  the  fleshly  side  of  unlawful  passion,  but  the 
spiritaaL  From  tte  sin  of  Guinevere  springs  tiie  ruin  of 
an  empire.  Hor  outrage  upon  purity  is  avenged  in  the 
downfall  of  that  great  kingdom  of  chivalry  which  Arthur 
had  built  up  with  infinite  toil  The  great  purpose  of  that 
kingdom  waa  that  it  shodd  be  Gocfa  kingdom  on  aMth. 
T3m  work  or  ill  giett  knighta  wm 

ToiMe  abfead  wiihswlm  k—an  wrwy. 

Their  rule  of  conduct  was 

To        no  ilaadtr.  asb  aor  Isten  to  k, 
To  Isad  street  Ihret  in  pomt  chatthjr. 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her. 
And  worship  her  by  years  of  noUe  deeds 
Uadl  dwy  woa  ktr. 

And  now  what  haiqpened?  Arthur  tells  her  she  has 
spoiled  tiw  purpose  of  his  life-. 

Wen  b  kdutt  no  child  is  bom  of  dwe. 

The  children  bom  of  thee  ate  sword  and  in. 

Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws. 

The  carnal  sin  of  one  guilty  woman  has  shattered  into 
utter  ruin  the  noblest  kingdom  ever  built  upon  the  earth. 
That  h  tlie  one  awful  feet  which  Tennyson  sees,  and  that 
is  the  key-note  to  the  whote  poem.  Where  otiier  poets 
might  have  seen  a  subject  on  which  they  could  lavish  all 
the  wealth  of  sensuous  imagoy,  he  sees  not  the  manner 


804  THE  MAKBliS  OF  SNOUSH  POETRY 


of  the  imning,  and  it  not  careful  to  paint  it,  but  the  tn- 

fiaile  eooMqucncci  of  thetin  straaming  on,  like  a  looMned 
flood  of  flame,  working  havoc  and  infiait*  wrtdt  upon 
every  side.   Just  as  it  is  the  spiritual  dcuatag  of  lov« 

which  he  paints  when  he  tells  us  

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  ud  ttrack  ea  aD  dw  cheids  wMi 
nifht. 

Smote  the  chord  of  sd(  tiM;  fnmtilin.  passed  ta  Msk  ««l 
of  sight. 

•o  H  is  the  spiritual  and  moral  effect  of  the  base  seliish- 
MM  of  unchaste  passion  which  he  describes,  when  he 
tiw  breaking  up  of  the  Round  Table,  and  Arthur 
toraiiigiMl^  awigr  to  IcMl  hit  dUwarteaed  IM 

Far  dem  to  that  great  batde  in  die  i*est 

It  it  this  perfect  and  pellucid  purity  of  Tennyson's 
miiid  whkh  has  enabled  him  to  do  many  things  impossi- 
ble to  others.  Take,  for  instanc  such  a  poem  as  Godiva. 
A  sul^ect  more  difficult  of  hanoling  it  would  be  hard  to 
find.  TJiff  slightest  prurience  of  thought  would  have  been 
ruiiious.  *  difficult  and  delicate  is  the  theme,  tint  die 
merest  fc  lerweight  of  over-description,  a  word  too 
much,  a  shade  of  colour  too  warm,  a  hint  only  of  human 
heat,  woukl  upset  the  balance,  and  turn  a  poem  which 
sparkles  with  a  crystal  purity  into  a  poem  brilliant  only 
with  the  iridescence  of  corrupt  conception.  Such  a 
theme  could  not  have  been  entrusted  to  Rossetti; 
scarcely,  indeed,  to  Keats ;  absolutely  not  to  Swinburne. 
To  make  it  acceptaUe  not  merely  the  most  ddiode  lio- 
ness of  touch  was  needed,  but  the  most  pellucid  freshnem 
of  thought.  Both  Keats  and  Rossetti  would  have  over- 
orfoured  tiie  j^cture,  and  left  upon  the  taste  the  taint  oT 


'HUN y BUM:  LOVl  AHD  WOMAN  IM 

•n  unwfaokiotne  voliipluoyi—i .  What  Swinburne 
would  have  made  of  it  acedi  no  tort  of  explanatioa. 

But  Tennyson  is  able  to  treat  it  nobly,  with  simplicity 
and  severity  of  touch,  and  he  does  so  in  sheer  virtue  of 
his  own  purity  of  heart.  There  is  about  him  something 
of  that  divine  quality  which  Guinevere  discovers  in  King 

Hm  pen  ssveikjr  of  perfsct  %ltt. 

He  has  no  cunning  eye  to  discern  anything  in  the  sub- 
ject which  can  minister  to  the  baser  man.  What  he  sees 
is  a  noble  woman  performing  an  heroic  deed.  He  de- 
scribes her  in  imagery  whidi  tS/ofim  her  at  witfi  a  gjw 
mentorUght:* 

She  lingered.  looUaf  Uke  a  soaaner  noon 

Half-dipt  in  cloud :  anon  she  shook  her  hoa4 
And  showered  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  kan  ; 
Unclad  hemlf  in  haMe ;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on;  aad.  like  a  cnepii^  soabeam.  sBd 
Fnn  pObr  unto  pillar. 

Thsa  sht  ndo  fMth  ckdNd  on  wMi  dnsdqr. 

It  k  tfw  moral  significance  of  tiie  scene  whidi  fiad- 

naies  Tennyson, — the  spectacle  of  a  woman  sacrificing 
herself  for  the  people's  good,  and  so  building  for  herself 
an  everlasting  name.  Godiva  is  a  short  p'  ^rn,  but  it  is 
invaluable  as  an  index  to  the  purity  of  nnysm^ 
genius,  luv  no  poet,  who  was  not  penetrat  by  the  ut- 
most reverence  for  womanhood  could  have  treated  such 
a  subject  with  sueh  daring,  or  such  conspicuous  success. 

This  revereuoe  of  Tennyson  tot  womanhood  is  marked 
in  all  his  poems,  and  is  an  influence  more  or  less  apparent 
throughout  his  work.  The  early  poems  no  less  than  the 
later  tbonoA  in  evklesce  oS  its  sincerity.   The  very  fact 


206   THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

that  so  many  of  his  poems  describe  women,  and  bar  the 
names  of  women,  is  in  itself  significant    He  beats  con- 
stant testimony  to  the  <•  finer  female  sense,"  and  is  care- 
ful that  he  shaU  not  oflend  it  by  lis  « random  string  " 
Woman,  as  he  conceives  her,  is  the  divinely  puriMi^ 
element  in  human  life.   Chivalry  to  woman  is  no  mere 
romantic  echo  of  the  past :  it  is  the  sign-manual  of  eveiy 
noble  soul.   The  apprehensions  of  woman  are  more  deU- 
cate  than  man's;   her  instincts  are  surer,  her  intuition 
more  certain,  her  spirit  more  gracious,  more  tender,  and 
more  divine.   He  who  despises  the  intuitions  of  pure 
womanhood  quenches  a  Ught  which  God  has  set  in  the 
world  for  his  guidance  and  illumination.    Of  couree  this 
IS  no  new  doctrine,  either  in  poetry  or  moraU.    But  it 
aune  upon  the  world  ahnost  as  a  new  doctrine  in  183a 
The  women  of  poetry  fifty  yean  ago-tiie  women  of 
Byron,  to  wit— had  no  sign  of  any  divine  intuition  about 
them.   They  were  warm,  weak,  and  foolish.   They  never 
exercised  tiie  slightest  control  over  men,  except  the  sen- 
suous control  of  passion.  They  wire  neither  reverenced 
n  r  obeyed.    They  were  the  toys  of  desire,  the  beautiful 
and  fragile  playthings  of  an  hour.   The  reverential 
chastity  of  Tennyson's  treatment  of  womanhood  was  no- 
where found  in  the  poetry  of  sixty  years  ago.   The  revo- 
lution and  emancipation  of  woman  had  not  yet  come  It 
w»  easy,  therefore,  for  writers  like  Bulwer  Lytton 
throughout  whose  works  there  are  very  few  examples  of 
reverence  for  woman,  and  in  which  the  prevalent  concep- 
Uon  of  woman  is  debasingly  gross  and  offensive,  to  mock 
Tennyson  as  «  school-miss  Alfred."   It  was  easy  to  use 
the  femininity  of  tone  in  the  earlier  poems  as  a  weapon 
of  insu  t  against  him.   Bulwer  Lytton  had  yet  to  & 
cover  that  reverence  for  woman  did  not  imply  any  lack 


TENNYSON:  LOVE  AND  WOMAN  SOT 

of  virility  in  manhood.  No  more  itingiiig  retort  wm 

ever  made  than  the  verse  which  Alffcd"  ^hn^ 

upon  the  dandy  author  of  Pelham  :  

What  profits  it  to  understand 

Hie  merits  of  a  spotless  shiit. 

A  dapper  foot,  a  litde  hand. 

If  half  the  little  io>a  be  dirt ! 
For  it  was  not  weakness  of  fibre  which  bred  in  Tenny- 
son a  reverence  for  woman,  but  nobility  of  spirit  And 
it  was  something  more  than  this.    It  was  the  outcome 
of  pure  training  under  the  gracious  eyes  of  good  women. 
The  home  was  to  Tennyson  the  highest  and  noblest  ex- 
pression of  himian  life.   His  sympathy  with  tomance 
and  chivalry  gave  us  exquisite  sketches  of  mediaeval 
thought,  like  the  Lady  of  ShaloU,  and  finally  worked  out 
that  noblest  series  of  poems,  Tht  Idylls  of  the  King. 
The  same  romantic  sympathy  is  apparent  in  such  a  poem 
of  fairy  fancy  as  the  Day  Dream.    But  the  strongest 
movement  of  Tennyson's  mind  in  the  direction  of  woman- 
worship  is  towards  domestic  life.   It  is  in  married  love 
that  the  noblest  fruit  of  love  is  found.   It  is  there  the 
divinest  dreams  of  love  are  realized.   Happy  he  to  wImwi 
such  joy  is  given,  but  the  joy  is  not  for  all. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close 

What  sequel  ?  Streaming  eyes,  and  breaUar  hnmf 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 

Not  so.  When  Love  and  Duty  strive  together,  the  vic- 
tory is  with  Duty.  Any  love  snatched  in  defiance  of 
Duty  is  not  true  love:  because  it  forgets  reverence  to 
womanhood,  therefore  it  is  base,  and  can  only  kad  to 
moral  disintegration  and  corruption.  Better  fiv 
Soch  tears  as  flow  but  once  a  life, 
la  ttet  lut  Usi.  whkk  antr  wM  the  tall 


1 11 


Vie*-.; 


208  THE  MAKEES  OF  ENGLISH  PCmBY 


For  to  Tennyson  so  supreme  is  the  passion  of  reverence 
for  womanhood,  so  infinitely  high  and  dear  is  womanly 
purity,  that  it  becomes  the  key  to  everything  really  noble 
in  human  life,  and  any  outrage  upon  tiiat  is  the  vilest  <rf 
all  sin — such  sin  as  shakes  the  pillars  of  society,  ai.d  over- 
throws the  majesty  and  might  of  empire.  Reverence  for 
woman  and  reverence  for  self  go  hand  in  hund. 

Self-ievereiice,  wlMcnowledge,  self-contnl,  ' 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sov'reign  power. 
Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncalled  for),  but  to  live  by  law. 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear : 
And,  becauw  i^ht  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Wen  witdmn  in  die  acom  of  consequence. 

But  high  as  Tennyson  sets  woman,  yet  he  retains  a 
clear  conception  of  the  just  and  proper  place  of  woman 
in  society.  She  may  inspire  and  lead  man,  but  she  is 
not  equal  with  man.  She  may,  indeed,  govern  men,  but 
it  is  not  by  the  right  of  superior  intellectual  endowment, 
but  by  the  force  of  her  nobility  gf  souL  Her  passions 
matched  with  man's 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  z  ad  as  water  unto  wine. 
That  is  a  rough  an  1  dramatic  way  of  expressing  the  truth, 
which  Tennyson  has  worked  out  at  large,  witfi  grrat 
subtlety  and  skill,  in  the  remarkable  poem  of  the  Princess. 

The  central  point  of  the  whole  argument  in  the  Princess 
is  that  woman  was  never  meant  to  wrestle  with  mr  n  in 
the  r-ena  of  intellectual  preeminence  or  tiie  actii-e  busi- 
ness of  the  worid.  He  will  reverence  her  to  the  u  tmost, 
but  he  will  not  abdicate  in  her  favour.  In  fact,  his  very 
reverence  is  founded  on  her  possession  of  certain  qualities 
which  man  has  in  only  a  less  degree,  and  tiiose  qualities 
are  the  highest,  because  they  lead  to  tlw  ndUMt  raitdti 


TiafNYSON :  LOVE  AND  WOMAN  909 


in  the  actual  administration  of  human  life.  Man  rules 
tiurmq^  tile  brain:  woman  through  the  heart  If  man 
ii  to  be  ruled  by  woman  it  can  only  be  a  spiritual  rule, 
not  an  intellectual.  In  nothing  is  the  retKmableness  of 
Tennyson's  mind  better  seen  than  in  this  poem.  It  would 
have  been  easy  for  him  to  become  an  impassioned  ad- 
vocate of  women's  rights.  On  the  contrary,  his  very 
reverence  for  womanhood  leads  him  to  put  certain  limita- 
tions upon  woman's  empire,  which  do  not  hinder  its  influ- 
ence, but  rather  intensify  it  The  power  of  woman  is  not 
to  be  wasted  in  vu^  strife  with  men  fot  social  preemi- 
nence: it  is  too  rare,  too  subtle,  too  ethereal.  That  power 
finds  its  highest  exercise  in  moulding  men  to  morality, 
and  penetrating  nations  with  the  spirit  of  purity.  The 
woman  who  is  « sUgM  natured,  nuserdtte,"  prevents  by 
her  peevishness  the  growth  <tf  man.  There  h  no  strife 
between  man  and  woman  — 

The  woman's  cause  is  man's :  they  rise  or  rink 
TctceOer,  dwaified  or  godlike,  beed  or  fieb 

They  are  '<  distinct  in  indiWdualitieB,''  and  the  only  bond 

of  common  life  and  txAh  

Self-reverent  each,  and  reverencing  eMh. 
And  the  noble  conclusion  of  the  whole  argument  once 
more  leads  to  that  vision  of  the  perfect  home  which 
never  ftdes  from  the  poet's  heart— 

For  wonun  is  not  midcvetopt  man 

Bat  diverse :  could  we  make  her  as  the  man 

Sweet  Love  were  sladn :  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 

Not  like  to  lijce.  but  like  in  difference. 

Yet  in  the       years  liker  must  they  grav; 

The  Buw  be  noic  of  woman,  she  of  man ; 

He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 

Nor  lose  the  wrestliqg  thews  that  thimr  the  worid ; 


SIO  THE  MAKHiRS  OF  ENOUSR  FOETBT 

Sh*  mental  bmuMi.  nor  ftil  in  chfldmud  care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind: 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  wwds ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  Time, 
St  side  by  side,  full-summed  in  all  their  powen, 
DispenriiV  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be. 

Finally,  we  may  say  of  Tennyson's  view  of  woman- 
hood, that  it  is  not  easy  to  exaggerate  the  imi.iense 
service  he  has  rendered  to  society  by  his  constant  in- 
sistence on  the  nobility  of  purity,  the  Divine  grace  of 
chastity.  He  has  never  glorified  the  wanton,  or  clothed 
evil  with  a  golden  mist  of  glowing  words.  He  has  kept 
his  moral  sense  acute  and  sensitive,  and  has  never  con- 
fused the  limits  of  right  and  wrong.  With  a  dear  aad 
steady  eye  he  has  gazed  upon  the  acts  of  unchaste  pas- 
sion, but  not  with  sympathy,  not  with  delirious  yearning, 
not  with  any  voluptuous  quickenmg  of  the  pulse:  but 
abrays  with  loathing,  with  hatred,  with  the  strenuous  ab- 
horrence of  a  noble  heart,  strong  in  its  virgin  purity.  He 
has  known  where  the  secret  of  strength  lay 

His  strength  was  as  the  strength  of  ten. 
Became  his  bean  was  pure. 

For  him  vice  ^as  had  no  seduction :  a  jealous  virtue  has 
sat  enthronea  .n  the  heart  of  his  genius,  and  preserved  his 
mind  unsullied.  When  we  consider  the  bulk  of  his  work, 
the  multitude  of  his  readers,  the  greatness  of  his  influ- 
ence, and  when  we  contrast  with  him  the  influence  and 
work  of  such  a  poet  as  Byron,  we  begin  to  understand 
how  vast  a  service  Tennyson  has  rendered  to  the  cause 
of  righteousness  by  the  reverent  ideal  of  womanhood  he 
has  maintained,  and  the  great  example  of  purity  which 
Jiehasset 


XXI 

TENNYSON'S  VIEW  OF  SOCIETY 
AND  POLITICS 

IT  is  hardly  to  be  expected  of  a  poet  that  he  should 
be  required  to  define  his  views  on  sociology,  or  that 
he  should  begin  his  work  in  imaginative  literature 
with  any  cut-and-dried  social  creed,  which  it  is  his  mis- 
sion to  propagate.   No  great  poet  has  ever  set  out  with 
any  such  propaganda.   Wordsworth  and  the  Lake  poets 
did  profess  a  definite  creed,  and  drew  up  a  statement  of 
their  principles,  but  they  were  purely  Uteraty  principles. 
There  was  nothing  in  these  principles  to  lead  the  Lake 
poets  towards  any  common  view  of  human  life,  or  human 
soaety.    Each  took  his  own  course  apart  from  the 
hterary  principles  they  professed  in  common,  and  H  was 
inevitable  that  he  should.    Training,  idiosyncrasy,  en- 
vironment, the  social  status  of  the  poet,  the  methods  of 
his  education,  the  opportunities  he  may  have  of  knowing 
the  worid,  or  the  reverse  — all  these,  and  a  Aoasand 
other  causes,  contribute  to  the  shaping  of  his  thought, 
and  the  consequent  attitude  of  his  mind  towards  human 
hfe.   But  though  a  poet  may  have  no  definite  intention 
of  drawing  up  any  philosophic  interpretation  of  life,  he 
iBually  succeeds  in  doing  so.    He  cannot  help  himself. 
He  IS  bound  to  furnfeh  himself  with  some  answer  to  the 
great  sodal  problems  that  press  upon  him  hungrily,  with 
a  dreadful  insistence,  demanding  solution  or  recon- 
ciliation.  Some  ideal  of  human  sociefy  he  must  have. 


312  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


and  he  cannot  help  comparing  things  as  they  are  with 
things  as  he  would  make  them.  When  at  last  the 
inished  work  of  a  poet  lies  before  us,  then  we  per- 
ceive, and  perhaps  he  also  perceives  for  the  first  time, 
that  there  is  a  unity  and  sharpness  of  outline  in  his 
thought,  which  is  clear  and  distinctive.  A  hint  there,  a 
phrase  here,  a  verse  yonder— and  silently  the  underlying 
thought  of  the  poet  emerges.  Bone  comes  to  its  bone 
till  at  I^t,  with  every  reticulation  complete,  the  skeleton 
rises  clothed  in  flesh,  and  the  ideal  of  human  life  which 
wa"  jealously  hidden  in  the  poet's  heart  stands  before  us 
complete  and  undisguised. 

Now,  perhaps,  the  first  thing  that  occurs  to  the  reader 
i«*o  approaches  Tennyson  from  this  point  of  view  is  his 
sense  of  onter.  The  tendency  of  his  mind  is  distinctly 
conservative.  He  hears,  indeed,  "  the  roll  of  the  ages," 
and  he  is  not  unconscious  of  the  revolutionary  elements 
which  seethe  in  society ;  but  he  hears,  if  not  with  unsym- 
padietic  stoicism,  at  least  with  an  equanimity  too  settled 
for  disturbance.  He  is  full  of  reverence  for  antiquity,  he 
is  filled  with  an  all-sufficing  sense  of  the  perfection  and 
indestructible  stability  of  all  English  institutions.  His 
mind  a  too  cahn  and  steady  to  be  sympa&etic  towanfa 
the  passionate  revolts  and  despairing  heroisms  of  those 
who  seek  an  immediate  reform  of  society;  he  is,  indeed, 
too  cool  in  temper  to  catch  the  glow  of  such  movements 
as  these.  The  place  in  whidi  he  hatHtuaUy  walks  and 
meditates  is  like  that  pathway  whidi  he  has  described  ia 
the  Gardener's  Daughter: — 

A  well-worn  pathway  courted  as 
To  eae  green  wkket  in  a  privet-hedge  ; 

This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  wallc 
Thro'  crowded  lilac-ambiuh  trimly  pruned ; 


TENNYSON'S  VIEW  OF  SOGIBIT  tU 

And  over  many  a  rai^ 

or  waviqfUnntiitgnycatbMlnaiMMn. 
AcRM  a  haiy  gUnuner  «rf  the  west. 

Kcveakd  their  shiaiiv  windows. 

Now  what  are  the  detaib  of  this  picture?  Whatkthe 

effect  it  produces  on  the  imagination  ?  The  chief  idea  it 
conveys  is  a  sense  of  perfect  order.    The  pathway  is 
weU-wom  with  the  feet  of  generations;  the  green 
wicket  is  framed  in  a  perfectly  neat  and  symmetrical 
privet-hedge;  the  lilac-bush,  in  its  utmost  joy  of  bur- 
geoning and  blossom,  must  be  allowed  no  license— it  is 
"  trimly  pruned  " ;  and  finally,  as  if  to  complete  the  sense 
of  well-established  use,  <rf  absolute  proprie^,  of  faultless 
order  and  reverent  conservatism,  the  gray  cathedral  walls 
bound  the  view,  and  the  shiuing  windows  seems  to  reflect 
the  glory  of  the  past   In  this  passage  we  have  a  not  in- 
apt illustration  of  the  strongest  tendency  of  Tennyson's 
mind.   It  is  from  such  a  neat  and  quiet  bower  of  peace 
he  looks  out  upon  the  world.    He  is  a  recluse,  shut  up 
with  his  own  Aoughts,  and  weaving  the  bright  thread  of 
his  fancy  far  from  the  loud  commotions  <rf^  tiie  woiU. 
He  loves  to  surround  himself  with  influences  which  minis- 
ter to  this  studious  calm.   In  the  garden  where  he  walks 
nc  leaf  tr  <-  *  cf  place,  no  grass-blade  grows  awiy.  If 
the  work  .  <  looks  upon  hardly  matches  the  spotlen 
i^fiety      •  3  retreat,  yet,  at  least,  the  world  shows  it- 
self upoi      2  whole  a  very  proper  and  weU-governed 
world.  Acddenti  will  happen  in  the  best-regulated  so- 
cieties, but  in  England  at  all  evmts  th^r  are  btessedly  nue. 
Our  roots  run  deep,  and  we  stand  above  the  shocks  of 
time.   We  have  gray  cathedrals,  excellent  clergy,  gra- 
cious noblemen,  statdy  homes  surrounded  by  the  greenest 
of  kwas»  whkdi  odght  alBost  jutttOr  tN  eto^pieatMlog^ 


914  THE  MAKSBS  OF  ENOLISB  FOBTRY 


of  the  Cunbridge  gardener,  who  remarked  that  such  turf 
could  only  be  got "  by  mowing  'em  and  roIUng  'em,  roll- 
ing 'era  and  mowing  'em,  for  thousands  of  yean  I "  The 
axiom  that "  Order  is  heaven's  first  law  "  has  been  fuUy 
accepted  by  Tennyson,  and  has  received  additional  de- 
velopment :  to  him  order  is  also  earth's  best  ex^lence. 

One  has  only  to  glance  through  Tennyson's  poems  of 
modern  life  to  see  that  this  criticism  is  neither  spiteful 
nor  unjust   He  is  usually  found  in  the  company  of  lords 
and  ladies,  princesses,  scholars,  and  generaUy  refined 
people,  whose  place  in  society  is  fully  assured.  There 
are  exceptions  to  this  statement,  of  course,  which  will  oc- 
cur to  every  reader.   He  has  studied  the  northern  farmer 
to  good  effect,  and  in  the  May  Queen  and  Dem  we 
have  admirable  pictures  of  homely  life.    But  this  does  not 
affect  the  general  ti-utii  of  tiie  statement   Claribel,  Lilian, 
Isabd,  Mariana,  are  not  daugfaten  of  the  people.  Lady 
Clara  Vere  de  Vere  certainly  receives  condign  dustise> 
ment,  but  still  she  is  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere.  Maud 
lives  in  tiie  stately  hall,  and  tiie  village  where  her  lover 
meets  her  is  the  sort  of  perfect  village, «  with  blossomed 
gable-ends"  which  we  only  see  upon  a  great  estate. 
When  he  bitterly  assails  a  lord,  it  is  a  new-made  lord, 
with  a  gewgaw  tide  new  as  his  castie,  "  master  of  half  a 
servfle  shire,**  and  clothed  with  the  rank  insolence  of  re- 
cent wealth.   When  he  alludes  to  trade  it  is  with  the 
usual  aristocratic  contempt,  and  the  ear  of  the  merduuit 

Is  crammed  with  his  cotton,  and  riags, 
Even  in  dreams,  to  the  chink  of  lus  pence. 

It  is  true  that  he  can  cry, 

Ah,  God,  for  a  man  with  a  heart,  head, 
lAe  tOBte    the  simple  great  ones  gene 


TENNYSON'S  VIEW  OF  SOCIETY  il5 

Foravcr  and  cm  by : 
One  idO  ttioag  nun  in  •  blatuit  Und, 

Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  !■» 
Ariitocrat,  democrat,  autocrat,  on* 
Who  cu  rute  ud  dare  not  Be  t 

But  tiiis  is,  after  all,  merely  the  wail  of  an  angiy  pessi- 
rnism.  It  is  the  sort  of  jeremiad  in  whidi  timid  minds 
usually  indulge  when  the  ancient  order  of  things  seems 
threatened.  Of  true  democratic  feeUng  Tennyson  is  sin- 
gularly destitute.  His  leaning  is  aU  the  other  way.  It 
is  the  sustained  splendour  and  delicate  refinement  <tf  aris- 
tocratic life  which  fascinate  him.  His  heart  is  with  the 
ancient  order  of  things,  and  all  his  modern  poems  breathe 
tile  si^t  of  tiiis  sentiment 

It  fottows.  therefore,  that  Tennysmi  never  has  been, 
and  never  can  be,  in  the  true  sense,  a  people's  poet 
That  he  has  w-'    i  poems  which  the  very  poorest  value, 
and  which  a.       .-ejoice  the  heart  of  the  peasant,  we 
gladly  admit     tobobly  the  May  Qiutn  is  the  most 
popular  poem  he  ever  wrote,  and  it  is  so  because  it 
touchw  the  hearts  of  homely  people.    But  in  the  main 
there  is  littie  few  the  common  people  in  Tennyson's  po- 
etry. It  knocks  at  the  door  of  Ae  lady%  bower,  but  not 
at  the  poor  man's  cottage.    Its  troops  of  knights  and 
la-^'es,  and  exquisitely-dressed  and  admirably-nurtured 
pe(^,  seem  out  of  place  amid  the  coarse  realities  of 
grimed  and  toiling  life.  To  those  who  stand  among  the 
shadows  of  life,  those  who  suffer  or  %ht  in  the  hard 
battles  of  humanity,  and  feel  the  cruel  irony  and  mock- 
ery of  circumstance,  it  may  well  seem  that  Tennyson's 
laudation  of  order  is  in  itself  an  irony,  that  the  puppets 
on  his  stage  know  little  of  the  great  throbbing  heart  of 
the  common  people,  and  that  their  fine  talk  is,  after  aU, 


il«  THE  IfAKBRS  (»*  SirOLmH  POEIBT 


ft  Itttk  too  Bnical  to  pierce  into  the  most  ttoet  chamben 

of  the  human  memory. 

A  further  evidence  of  this  limitation  of  sympathy  in 
Tennyson  is  found  in  his  treatment  of  social  questions. 
He  does  not  igaoit  them;  he  sees  them  indeed,  and  some 
of  his  lines,  such  as  the  following  from  the  opoUi^  of 
Maud,  quiver  with  a  passionate  indignation :  

And  the  vitriol  madnen  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian's  head 
Tm  the  fihfay  by-laae  rings  to  the  yeO  of  the  trampled  wifc. 
And  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  the  poor  for  hnwi, 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life. 

But  it  is  not  in  mere  denunciation  of  existing  evils  that 
the  true  poet  should  spend  himself.  The  true  poet  seeks 
to  probe  the  heart  of  the  world's  sorrow,  and  we  tma  to 
him  to  know  what  verdict  he  can  give,  and  whether  there 
is  any  hope.   Tennyson  has  no  distinctive  reply  to  such 
queitioiis  as  these,  or  if  any  reply,  it  is  a  hopeless  one. 
He  perceives  the  glorious  growth  of  science,  he  fore- 
shadows the  vast  discoveries  of  a  larger  age,  he  is  sure 
that  on  the  whole  the  world  means  prt^ess ;  but  when 
he  brings  himself  face  to  (ace  with  the  actual  details  of 
life  lived  in  poverty,  squalor,  and  crime  he  is  sullenly  un- 
hopeful   He  locks  upon  the  whole  question  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  comfortable  burgess,  not  of  the  poor 
man  himsdf  who  stands  amid  the  grime  of  tiie  actual 
sacrifice.    He  gazes  down  from  his  sunny  vantage>ground 
of  xsthetic  refinement,  where  "  no  wind  blows  roughly," 
and  pondeis,  speculates,  sympathizes,  but  his  philosophic 
eahn  is  undisturbed.   He  never  steps  down  into  the  thick 
of  the  struggle,  and  makes  those  who  unjustly  suffer  feel 
that  in  '  n  they  have  a  comrade  and  a  champion.  When 
the  sucMen  light  of  some  glowing,  some  delusive  hope  is 
fiuag  across  their  wasted  &ces,he  is  quick  to  tdl  them 


TlNKYBCHre  VIEW  OP  SOCIETY  917 

that  the  hope  is  delusive,  and  to  rebuke  them  for  their 
excca  of  fiaod  craduUty.  One  of  his  character!  is  de- 
scribed  as  running 

A  Matayaa  Madi  ^pdMt  the  tisMS : 

but  when  we  wait  to  be  told  exactly  in  what  his  oflend- 
ing  lies,  we  find  that  it  simply  amounts  to  this,  that  he 

Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all  mankind. 
This  is  typical  of  Tenn>f  jon's  point  of  view  of  social  ques- 
tions. Ttoe  isnolivUigheatof  etttiiusiasminhim:he 
is  vrrapped  in  a  chilly  mantle  of  reserve,  and  he  chilktiie 
ardent  as  he  talks  with  them.  When 
concession  to  the  poor,  what  is  it  ? 

Why  should  not  these  great  rirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  doan  dass  a  jmr 

To  let  the  people  breathe  ? 

That  is  all :  a  mere  act  of  justice,  an  imperfect  recogm  Jon 
(rf  tiiL  truth  tiiat  property  has  duties-as  well  as  privil^es ; 
but  it  it  announced  as  thot^  it  were  a  revolu^,  maim 
if  the  poet  himself  were  astonished  at  his  own  daring. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  sense  of  daring  is  not  surprising 
w^Ctt  we  find  that  the  proposal  was  made  to  a  stalwart 


A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A  pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 
A  quarter-aessioDS  dudfiMui,  alder  bom 
Fair-haired,  and  redder  than  a  wiady  \ 

And,  practically,  this  is  as  far  as  Tennjrson  ever  goes  in 
his  treatment  of  jwcial  questions.  He  does  not  really 
graq>  ttem.  He  does  not  niMierstaad  llie  intensity  of 
peril,  or  the  grave  considerations  of  justice  which  under- 
lie  them.  He  stands  aloof,  in  the  company  of  baronets 
and  princesses,  courtl.  and  cultured  peopl^  wluwe  life  it 


SIS  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  VOET&Y 

perfumed  with  pleasure  and  cut  off  from  aU  intrusion  of 
tragic  misery ;  those  who  fare  sumptuously  eveiy  day.  to 
whom  poetry  b  u  exquisite  luxury  of  the  mind  as  fine 
colour  IS  to  the  eye.  or  deUcate  flavour  to  the  appetilv 
S:  'Li  *f  Tennyson  sings,  and  it  is  their  view  of 
life  which  findi  the  fullest  refltcUon  in  his  poetry 

It  IS  charactariitic  of  the  sdentilic  spirit  that  it  rigidly 
attends  to  facts,  and  classifies  them,  finally  deducing  from 
toem  gr«t  laws  which  appear  to  underlie  and  control  aU 
things   Thus,  in  his  treatment  of  Nature.  Tennyson's 
love  of  saence  has  worked  in  the  diieetion  of  accuracy  of 
statement  and  fidelity  of  deUneation.   But  in  hit  view  of 
hfe  It  has  checked  generous  enthusiasm,  and  produced 
coldness  of  temper.   The  survival  of  the  fittest  is  not  in 
truth  a  doctrine  likely  to  produce  a  sympathetic  temper 
towards  the  crippled  and  the  unfortunate.   Itdoes  indml 
kindle  a  great  light  in  the  future.    It  pictures  the  final 
evolution  of  man  into  some  unimagined  state  of  strength 
and  joy.  when  he  shaU  have  attained  his  majority,  and 
entered  mto  the  scientific  paradise  «rhich  Truth  itpreMr. 
ing  for  him.  r»«r~ 

So  many  milUon  of  ages  have  goat  to  Ae  «»"Mrg  of  au^ 

that  we  may  well  consider  him  not  as  having  reached  his 
true  heighU)ut  as  toiling  on  to  something  higher  even 
than  he  dreams.  But  however  bright  may  be  the  vision 
of  the  future,  the  survival  of  the  fittest  is  noor  comfort  w 
the  vast  interval.  It  has  nothing  to  say  io  the  halt  and 
maimed,  except  that  they  deserve  to  be  halt  and  maimed. 
K  can  reioice  in  the  vast  movements  of  society  which, 
hke  immense  waves,  cany  it  onward  to  its  hifinite  goal, 
but  It  has  no  compassion  for  the  lives  sacrificed  every  day 
w  this  predetermined  progress.   And  as  one  turns  over 


TENNYSON'S  VIEW  OF  SOdETT  919 


the  pages  of  Tamyios.  he  aoiiMttflm  ftadi  hinselt  won- 
dering whether  lennyson  lias  ever  sufTered  deeply 
Personal  suffering,  the  agony  of  severed  love  which  comes 
to  all,  he  hn  known ;  but  there  is  another  form  of  sorrow, 
the  sorrow  of  ear]^  disappointment  and  rebufT,  which 
does  far  more  to  educate  men  into  breadth  and  charity  ol 
view ;  and  by  the  buffeting  angels  of  vicissitude  he  has 
been  unvisited.   Life  may  be  too  fortunate,  things  may 
go  too  well  with  men  in  this  world  The  liquor  of  life 
may  corrupt  with  excess  of  sweetness ;  and  for  lack  of 
that  wholesome  bitter  of  disappointment,  which  is  God's 
frequent  medicine  to  the  greatest,  a  man's  heart  may 
stagnate  in  an  undisceming  content    Is  tills  abaence  of 
vicissitude  part  of  the  reason  for  the  compnntive  limita- 
tion of  sympathy  which  we  find  in  Tennyson's  view  of 
life?  He  has  been  attended  by  worldly  fortune  and  sue- 
cess  never  before  vouchsafed  to  any  En^h  poet  How 
d  flferent  the  life  that  closed  in  sorrowful  isolation  at  Dum- 
fries, or  the  Ufe  cut  off  by  the  violence  of  tempest  at 
Spezzia,  from  the  dose  of  tills  life  in  fortune,  fame,  anr  a 
peerage !   How  dl&rent  the  plain  life  and  timpit  home 
from  which  came  to  us  the  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immor- 
tality  from  the  cultured  life  of  artistic  ease  in  which  the 
Idylls  of  the  King  were  slowly  fashioned  and  made  per- 
fect In  festidlous  patience  1   Doubt  It  as  we  may,  resent  it 
as  we  do,  nevertheless  the  truth  remains  that  those  whose 
words  live  longest  in  the  hearts  of  men  have  "  learned  in 
suffering  what  they  taught  in  song."   In  them  the  heart 
has  most  maintained  a  childlike  simfdldty  and  sympathy ; 
and  to  them  it  has  been  given  to  survey  life  with  the 
largest  charity  of  hope.    Is  it  this  lack  of  vicissitude  in 
the  life  (tf  tiM  poet  hlmsdf  whidi  has  dulled  tiie  lai^er 
•y«P*thiet  of  h»  nature,  and  narrowed  tile  range  and 


220  THE  MAKEE8  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 
spirit  of  his  poetry?   Has  he  too  long,  like  hi,  own 

Fed  mi     lOMt  and  lain  ia  the  Blies  of  Bfe  ? 

It  is  hard  to  judge :  but  no  one  can  be  unconsdous  of  the 
fact  of  this  limitation.  Its  causes  lievpartly  in  the  order 
of  the  poet  s  life,  but  mainly  in  the  character  of  his  own 
mind,  which  is  dispassionate  rather  than  ardent,  philo- 
sophic rather  than  sympathetic,  and  better  fitted  to  touch 
with  subtle  delicacy  the  fringe  of  a  great  problem  than  to 
penetrate  its  gloom  with  true  imaginative  insight. 

The  same  deficiencies  are  noUble  in  Tennyson's  treat- 
ment of  politics.   He  has  a  deep  and  genuine  love  of 
country,  a  pride  in  the  achievements  of  the  past,  a  con- 
fidence  m  the  greatness  of  the  future.   And,  as  we  have 
already  seen,  this  sense  of  patriotism  almost  reaches  in- 
sulan^  of  view.   He  looks  out  upon  the  larger  world 
with  a  gentle  commiseration,  and  surveys  its  un-English 
habits  and  constitution  with  sympathetic  contempt.  The 
patriotism  of  Tennyson  is  sober  rather  than  glowing: 
It  IS  meditative  rather  than  enthusiastic.  OccasionaUy 
mdeed,  his  words  catch  fire,  and  the  ver.e  leaps  onward 

oftkeUght  Brigade,  or  in  such  a  glorious  ballad 
as  the  story  of  the  Revenge.  Neither  of  these  poems  is 
hkely  to  perish  until  the  glory  of  the  nation  perishes,  and 
her  deeds  of  a  splendid  and  chivalrous  past  sink  into  an 
obhvion  which  only  shameful  cowardice  can  bring  upon 
her  But  as  a  rule  Tennyson's  patriotism  is  not  a 
SnT         '"'P;""^  It  '"editative. 

o?1^fct  'T^'"^^^^^  the  infallibilit; 

of  fte  EnglMh  judgment,  the  eternal  security  of  English 
institutions  the  perfection  of  Englidi  fori  IT^. 
ment  Tha  «  his  description  of  fingtend : 


TBNNYBOira  VIEW  OF  SOCTETr  m 


It  b  die  land  that  ftcemen  till. 
That  sober^suited  Freedom  r :  cse 
Tlie  land  where,  girt  with  fri  ids  or  foes, 

A  nuoi  nay  ^eak  the  dring  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government. 
A  land  of  just  aiid  old  renown. 
Where  Freedom  slowly  broadens  down 

Frem  precedent  to  precedent ; 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head. 
But  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought. 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thoi^ht 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  qpicad. 

In  these  verses  we  have  the  gist  of  Tennyson's 
general  view  of  English  political  life.  Freedom  is  not 
to  him  a  radiant  spirit,  flooding  the  world  with  Divine 
splendour;  nor  a  revolutionary  spirit,  moving  throu^ 
the  thunders  of  war,  whose  habitation  is  cloud,  and 
smoke,  and  the  thick  darkness;  nor  a  Godlike  spirit, 
putting  tile  trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and  sounding  the 
Divine  battle-caU,  which  vibrates  through  the  heart  of 
the  sleeping  nations,  and  wakens  them  to  vi^»iouB 
endeavour;  it  is  "sober-suited  Freedom,"  -  "diffusive 
tiioug^t,"  a  scientific  growth  evohnng  itself  through  long 
ages  of  patient  struggle,  a  heritage  only  won  by  patience, 
and  only  kept  by  sobriety  of  judgment  and  mutual 
compromise.  Freedom  indeed  makes  "  bright  our  days 
and  li^t  our  dreams,"  but  she  also  stands  disdainfully 
afcjof  from  over-much  contact  with  tumultuous  passicms, 

Turning  to  ■corn  with  lips  divine 
ThCfalsehood  of  extremes. 

Of  the  falsehood  of  extremes  Tennyson  is  keenly  con- 
•dous.  His  philosophic  insight  perceives  the  peril,  and 
ludds  him  back  from  any  imr^ukted  enthusiasm. 


8M  THE  MAKERS  OP  ENGLISH  POETRY 

There  is  no  abandonment  about  his  patriotism.  It  is  the 
cod  and  scholastic  patriotism  of  the  moralist,  not  the 
ardent  patriotism  of  the  man  standing  in  the  fuU  stream 
of  action  and  moving  with  it.  And  for  this  reason  it  lacks 
vigour,  and  it  does  not  inspire  men  with  any  real  warmth. 
There  is  Uttie  in  Tennyson's  patriotism  that  could  feed 
«»e  flame  of  spiritual  ardour  in  a  time  when  men  actually 
had  to  fight  and  die  for  liberty.  It  is  retrospective :  it 
gilds  the  past  with  a  refined  glory,  but  it  does  not  mould 
the  present   It  immortalizes  the  work  of  the  fathers  — 

The  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden  anote 
Will  vibrate  to  the  doom ; 

but  if  the  work  of  Hampden  had  to  be  done  over  again 
we  should  scarcely  look  to  Tennyson  for  encouragement : 
and  when  the  new  Roundheads  «  hummed  a  surly  hymn  " 
and  went  out  to  battle,  we  are  pretty  sure  Tennyson 
would  be  found  with  the  king's  armies,  and  would  be  the 
accepted  laureate  of  the  ancient  order. 

There  is  no  doubt  room  for  this  species  of  patriotism 
and  it  IS  certainly  a  not  unpopular  species.  It  is  the 
patriotism  of  the  well-bred  and  cultured  dasses,  of  the 
merchant  who  has  made  his  fortune,  the  aristocrat  who 
hves  m  feudal  security,  the  student  or  specialist  whose 
money  is  safely  invested  in  the  funds,  and  brings  in  its 
uneventful  dividends.  Nothing  is  more  common  tiian  the 
praise  of  English  institutions  by  men  who  have  an  im- 
perfect sympathy  with  the  processes  by  which  they  have 
lH«n  created.  It  is  the  cant  of  after-dinner  speeches,  the 
infallible  note  which  always  wakens  thunders  of  apphuse 
for  the  utterances  of  otherwise  indifferent  speakers. 
Nor  can  we  be  surprised  at  the  popularity  of  this  kind 


TENNYSON'S  VIEW  OF  SOCIETy 

of  patriotism.   It  produces  a  gentle  stimulating  warmth 
of  self-co  iplacency  which  is  very  pleasant  <  -  the  average 
Englishman.   It  tells  him  what  he  most  loves  to  hear 
that  upon  the  whole  he  possesses  the  monopoly  of 
political  wisdom,  and  holds  the  patent  for  the  only  peiw 
feet  form  of  political  government.    But  we  usually  find 
in  this  species  of  patriotism  a  very  deficient  sense  of 
present  needs  as  compared  with  past  glories.   And  this 
is  preeminently  true  of  Tennyson.    When  he  is  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  actual  conditions  of  modern  political 
me  he  recoils  in  angry  dismay.    It  is  one  thing  to  praise 
the  British  constitution  in  theory,  it  is  quite  another  to 
approve  it  in  fact.   The  spirit  of  Freedom  which  moves  in 
the  thick  turmoil  of  present  affairs  is  anything  but "  sober- 
suited."   The  phrase  "sober-suited  Freedom"  may  ad- 
mirably describe  a  Freedom  which  has  been  tamed  and 
domesticated,  but  it  does  not  describe  the  spirit  of  Liberty 
which  actually  worked  in  the  fiery  clangour  of  the 
EngUsh  civil  wars,  or  the  French  Revolution,  or  that 
moves  in  the  hot  parliamentary  encounters  of  to-day. 
Both  there  and  here,  then  and  now.  Freedom  is  the 
radiant  and  constraining  spirit,  inspiring  stormy  impuUes 
and  emotions,  trampling  on  ancient  wrongs,  ever  busy 
and  never  resting,  carrying  on  the  continual  war  for  the 
rights  and  heritages  of  man.    When  that  actual  reaUty  of 
what  Freedom  means  is  grasped,  the  mere  connoisseure 
Of  a  tame  and  domesticated  Freedom,  adapted  to  house- 
hold  uses,  always  fall  back  alarmed,  and  nspudiate 
Freedom  in  something  like  dismay.    Tennyson  does  not 
do  this  altogether,  'but  the  recoil  is  nevertheless  evident. 
He  fears  « the  many-headed  beast "  the  people.   He  dis- 
trusts their  instincti  and  Impute.   Thdrideaof  Kberty 
is  not 


SM  THE  HAKERS  OP  ENGLISH  POETRY 


That  sober  freedom,  out  of  which  there  iprii^ 
Oar  lojral  pudoa  for  onr  tea^ente  kings. 

The  pulse  of  the  demooacy  throbs  too  ftst  for  him, 

and  liberty  moves  with  an  undignified  breadth  of  stride 
in  these  modern  days.  His  contempt  for  trade  breaks 
out  at  every  pore,  and  he  thanks  God  «  we  are  not  cotton- 
spinners  all"  And  so  it  happens  that  while  no  poet  has 
had  a  keener  patriotic  sense  of  the  greatness  of  the  past 
of  England,  yet  Tennyson  usually  fails  to  sympathize  with 
the  modem  spirit,  or  to  recognize  the  revolutionary  stress 
of  the  modem  England.  We  instinctively  fed  that  he 
distrusts  the  age,  and  is  afraid  of  the  growth  of  popular 
liberty.  There  was  a  great  England  once,  but  that  was 
long  ago:  over  the  England  of  to-day,  too  frequenUy 
m  T;nnyson's  vision,  the  darkness  of  decadence  gathers, 
and  the  work  of  slow  disruption  and  decay  is  threatening,' 
even  if  it  be  not  ah-eady  commenced. 

One  result  of  this  philosophic  and  tempered  patriotism 
of  Tennyson  is  that  he  naturaUy  has  Uttle  sympathy  with 
forlorn  hopes  and  unpopular  causes.   The  men  who  fail, 
the  great,  eager,  hasty  spirits  of  humanity  who  fling 
themselves  with  a  noble  impulsiveness  on  the  spears  of 
custom,  and  gather  the  cruel  sheaf  into  thdf  hearts,  do 
not  fascinate  him.    He  does  not  see  the  noble  side  of 
failure,  the  quickening  vitality  of  a  true  impulse,  even 
though  it  be  misguided,  and  fail  whoUy  of  attainment 
The  steady  growth  of  constitutional  h*berty, "  broadening 
slowly  down  from  precedent  to  precedent,"  always  re- 
specting precedent,  never  failing  in  a  proper  loyalty  to 
the  rdgning  classes,  is  a  drama  on  which  he  can  brood 
with  sober  pleasure ;  but  the  angry  uprising  of  the  mul- 
titude to  whom  the  bitter  yoke  can  no  longer  be  made 
tderable  does  not  thrill  or  inspire  him. 


TEsnsneowB  view  of  sochkit  m 

For  ifflustntion  of  this  mood  and  temper,  take,  for  in- 
stance, his  attitude  to  France.  Tlie  French  Revdutioa 
was  unquestionably  the  turning-point  in  European  liberty, 
and  it  has  been  the  sad  irony  of  history  that  every  nation 
has  had  a  larger  share  of  the  spoil  of  freedom  tium 
France  herself.  It  has  been  her  unhi4>py  fate  to  undetgo 
the  martyrdom,  and  Europe  has  reaped  the  victory. 
Two  great  poets,  Byron  and  Shelley,  had  a  large  enough 
conception  of  liberty  to  be  true  to  France  in  tiie  hour  of 
her  agony,  and  in  spite  of  the  excess  of  horror  which 
made  the  last  stages  of  the  Revolution  a  hideous  night- 
mare of  unbridled  cruelty.  Two  other  poets,  Wonls- 
worth  and  Coleridge  forsook  her  and  fled.  It  is  not  dif- 
ficult to  understand  why.  We  can  comprehend  how  the 
revulsion  of  horror  fell  on  both,  and  how  in  that  hour  of 
darkness  the  face  of  Liberty  seemtd  forever  obscured. 
But  it  is  difficult  to  understand  how  a  great  poet  who 
profissses  a  love  of  freedom  can  to-day  fling  jeer  and  jest 
against  the  great  people  whose  sufferings  in  the  cause  of 
liberty  have  been  for  the  healing  of  the  nations.  Yet 
this  is  Tennyson's  description  of  the  Ftendi :~ 

Bat  yonder,  whiff  I  Ttee  comes  a  mdden  hn^ 

The  gravest  dtiien  seems  to  lose  his  head. 

The  King  is  seated,  the  soldier  will  not  fight; 

The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and  stab, 

A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 

like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the  worid 

In  mock-heroics  strangCT  than  our  own: 

Revolts,  republics,  revolutioiis,  most 

No  graver  tban  a  schodboy's  buring  out. 

Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they  are, 

Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in  them. 

then  k  nothing  in  this  forlorn  yet  noble  quest  of  liberty 

which  toudm  the  higher  note  of  syaapatliy  in  Tennyson. 


»6  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


His  9oie  reflection  is  that  such  are  not  wt,  and  a  pious 
fduurteaic  congretuk^n — 

God  bless  the  narrow  sea  whkh  keeps  her  <rfr. 
And  keeps  our  Britain  whole  within  herself. 
A  nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled ; 

God  bless  the  narrow  seas  I 
I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic  broad  1 

How  different  is  this  to  the  spirit  in  which  Browning 
rq:ards  the  same  spectacle  I   To  him  there  is  a  perennial 
nobleness  in  any  true  impulse  whose  aim  is  lofty,  and  its 
failure  of  attainment  simply  invests  it  with  a  patiietic 
grandeur,  a  tragic  dignity,  a  new  claim  upon  our  honour 
and  admiration.    Failure  in  a  great  cause  is  to  Browning 
better  than  victory  in  a  mean  ambition,  and  to  perish  in 
the  right,  even  when  the  right  is  dimly  comprehended,  is 
better  than  to  succeed  with  a  merely  conventional  suc- 
cess.  It  is  not  through  any  deficiency  of  analytical  pen- 
etration that  Browning  does  not  pass  as  shrewd  critictsms 
as  Tennyson  on  the  national  defects  of  others,  but  he  is 
better  employed :  it  is  his  mission  to  mark  the  good  that 
lurks  in  evil,  and  the  high  ideals  which  often  penetrate 
and  underlie  even  the  most  defective  human  action. 
When  he  goes  to  the  French  Revolution  for  a  subject,  it 
is  not  to  find  a  text  for  British  self-complacency,  but  to 
catch  the  dying  whisper  of  the  patriot's  soul  as  it  passes 
out  (tf  this  wild  eardUy  ccmfixricm,  and  to  report  it  dun :  ^ 

I  go  in  the  rain.  and.  more  than  needs. 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind  ; 
And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds. 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind. 
Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 

Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go  I 

la  triumphs  pec^  have  di^^  down  dead. 


TENNYSON'S  VIEW  OF  SOCIETY  287 

••  Paid  by  the  world,  what  do«t  thou  owe 
Me?"  God  might  question ;  now  instead, 
'Tis  God  shall  repay :  I  am  Mfcr  to. 

The  difference  between  the  two  poets  is  precisely  the 
difference  between  an  insular  and  cosmopoUtan  view  of 
potitica.  Tennyson  sounds  no  keen  clarion  of  hope,  he 
is  in  no  sense  the  leader  of  men.  Men  will  never  go  to 
him  for  inspiration  in  the  dark  and  difficult  hour  of  na- 
tional peril.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  cannot  be  said 
that  the  general  note  he  strikes  is  pessimistic.  He  says 
that  his  feith  is  large  in  time:  he  antidjntes  the  hour 
when 

The  warninuns  throb  no  longer,  and  the  batUe-flags  are  foricd* 
In  the  PuliwoKnt  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

Human  progress  Is  a  Divine  certainty :  — 

This  fine  <dd  world  of  oars  is  but  a  child 

Yet  in  the  go-cart— Patience  !    Give  it  time 
To  learn  its  limbs  :  there  is  a  Hand  that  guides. 

The  work  of  poUtical  evolution,  like  the  work  of  natural 
evolution,  is  slow,  and  asks  for  its  development  the 
breadth  of  the  ages.  There  wiU  be  widening  thoughts 
with  the  process  of  the  suns ;  there  will  be  steady  in- 
crease of  strength  and  wisdom,  and  growing  •«  harmonies 
of  law."  Tennyson's  reverence  for  law  is  complete  and 
absorbing  :  it  is  a  temper  of  mind  nurtured  by  his  knowl- 
edge  of  and  reverence  for  science.  Even  in  his  treatment 
of  so  Ught  and  delicate  a  fancy  as  the  Day-dream  he 
remembers  the  majesty  of  law,  and  ptctuies  liow  the 
would  may 

Sleep  throngh  terms  of  mighty  wars 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more  

On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  star% 

As  wild  as  *«f  !»  of  fairy  lore. 


SM  THE  ICAKERS  OP  ENOLIBH  POETRY 


AU  the  defeats  and  renunciations  of  to-day  are  but  the 
Diviae  <&ciidiiie  shaping  us  for  a  great  to-morrow,  and 
far  away,  in  the  unmeasured  and  inuneasufsble  qwces  of 

the  future,  lies  a  fair  and  renovated  world.  He  is  as  one 
who  watcheth  for  the  morning.  His  vision  is  not  always 
dear,  his  hope  is  not  always  strong;  and  often  in  the 
dark  night  his  faith  seems  to  suffer  sorrowful  ed^MC:  la 
sudi  hours,  when  we  ask  him,  «■  Watcher,  what  of  the 
nigm?"  his  voi--  is  mournful  and  his  speedi  is  bitter. 

At  last  I  heard  a  vmce  npon  tbe  slope 

Ciy  to  die  swninit.  Is  there  any  hope? 

To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that  high  Iand> 

But  in  a  tongue  no  num  could  understand. 

But  it  is  at  least  a  high  land  on  which  the  poet  stands 
and,  confused  as  his  reply  may  often  be,  yet  he  never 
foils  to  see  for  off  the  promise  of  the  future,  how 

On  the  glimmering  limit,  far  withdrawn, 
God  makes  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 

And  for  this  noble  hope  we  thank  the  poet  He  does 
not  fight  in  the  ranks  with  us,  but  he  foresees  the  hour 
of  victory.   He  does  not  stand  amid  the  heat  aad  dust 

of  battle ;  but  he  that  is  not  against  us  is  for  vm.  He  ii 
one  of  those  of  whom  Arnold  speaks,  one 

Whohath  watched,  not  shared  tbe  strife: 

but  at  least  he  "  knows  how  the  day  has  gone,"  and  he 
waits  in  patient  hope  for  the  breakiiig  <tf  a  lug/a  dawa. 


XXII 

IDYLLS  AND  THE  IDYLLS  OF  THE 
KING 

WE  have  now  come  to  the  poiiit  in  our  study  of 
Tennyson  where  his  two  greatest  poems,  the 
fdyils  of  the  King  and  In  Memoriam,  come 
into  review.  There  are,  however,  certain  groups  of 
poems  whidi  can  scarcely  be  passed  unmentioned,  and 
before  turning  to  the  two  greatest  works  of  Tennyson  it 
may  be  well  to  glance  at  these.  Everywhere  throughout 
Tennjrson's  books  there  are  to  be  found  exquisite  dusten 
of  lyrical  poems,  and  it  may  be  said  with  confidence  tliat 
in  this  domain  of  poetry  his  power  is  unrivalled  and 
excellence  supreme.  It  is  this  excellence  which  redeems 
Maud,  in  all  other  respects  the  weakest  and  least  artistic 
of  his  long  poems.  The  PHneess,  again,  wearisome  and 
dull  as  it  becomes  in  parts,  contains  three  or  four  <rf  ^ 
most  musical  lyrics  Tennyson  has  ever  written,  and 
snatches  of  melody  which  will  bear  comparison  with  the 
finest  lyrics  in  the  language.  The  art  in  which  Tomy. 
son's  rarest  excellence  lies,  the  art  of  musical  g^pw!— jftn^ 
the  subtle  cadence  of  rhythm  which  produces  a  recurring 
and  never-forgotten  sweetness  in  the  memory,  is  seen  at 

its  very  best  in  these  short  and  lovcty  lyrics.  TheliM 
in  the  /Wmmt  colhmenchig. 

The  splendour  falls  on  cmUs  walls, 
may  be  mentioned  in  this  category  as  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  the  effect  of  fine  music  which  language  is  able 


230  THE  IIAKERS  OF  EN0LI8H  POETRY 


to  imduce,  and  in  glamour  and  iwcetacM  tluy  are  un* 
approached  by  any  modern  poet.  Of  poems  like  theK 
nothing  can  be  said  but  praise.  They  have  gone  far  to 
cmistitute  die  charm  of  Tennyson.  They  have  found 
their  way  into  the  general  memory  without  effort,  by 
virtue  of  an  enchantment  all  their  own.  They  will 
probably  be  remembered  when  much  of  his  more 
ambitious  work  is  forgotten.  Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that 
already  this  process  has  been  accomplished  in  part,  and 
the  chief  thing  which  preserves  Mamd  from  oblivion  is 
the  famous  garden-song,  "  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud," 
one  of  the  most  finished  and  impassioned  lyrics  that  is 
to  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  modem  English.  In 
lyrical  power  and  sweetness,  in  the  power  of  uttering 
that "  lyrical  cry,"  as  it  I  been  called,  that  species  of 
poem  which  is,  in  trutli,  i  so  much  a  poem  as  a  cry, 
a  voice,  a  gust  of  thrilling  music— in  this  art  Tennyson 
has  few  rivals  and  no  peer. 

To  another  class  of  poems  in  which  Tennyson  has  at- 
tained high  excellence  he  has  bimself  given  an  appropri- 
ate  title  when  he  calls  them  •=  nglish  Idylls.   The  more 
famous  is  Enoch  Arden,  the  most  exquisite  is  Dora, 
When  Enoch  Arden  was  published  great  exception  was 
taken  to  its  method  and  structure,  and  its  obvious  want 
of  simplicity  in  diction  was  held  to  disqualify  its  title  to 
be  called  an  English  idyll.    In  subject  it  is  purely  idyllic, 
in  diction  it  is  elaborately  ornate.    One  of  the  acutest 
and  most  brilliant  of  English  critics.  Mr.  Walter  Bagehot, 
has  pointed  out  the  fact  that  in  no  single  instance 
throughout  the  poem  is  Tennyson  content  to  speak  in 
the  language  of  simpUcity.    The  phrases  art  often 
happy,  often  expressive,  but  always  stiff  with  an  elaborate 
w^cWselling.  To  nqaxss  the  very  homely  drcuar 


roYLLS  AND  THE  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING  S81 


stance  that  Enoch  Aitkn  was  a  fisherman  and  -old  fish, 

we  are  told  that  he  vended  "  ocean-spoil  in  ocean-smell- 
ing osier."  The  description  of  the  gateway  of  the  Hall 
is  almost  pretentious  in  its  combination  of  complex 
phiases:  "portal-warding  lioa-iHi(^  and  tlie  peacodc 
yew-tree."  This  is  no  doubt  an  occeUent  deacriptioo  <tf 
tropic  scenery : — 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts, 

Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east, 

The  blaze  upon  bis  island  over  head. 

Then  the  great  stars  diat  gh>bed  themsehm  ia  HeaveBf 

The  hoUower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise— but  no  sail. 

But  this  is  not  a  shipwrecked  sailor's  description  of  what 
he  would  see,  nor  is  there  a  single  phrase  such  as  a 
homely  seaman  would  be  likdy  to  tne  in  all  tha  dabofate 
passage.  "  The  hollower-bellowing  ocean  "  is  a  combina- 
tion such  as  an  ornate  poet,  anxious  to  combine  his 
impressions  in  a  complex  phrase,  might  use;  but  it 
would  not  by  any  possibility  be  the  phrase  of  Enodi 
Arden.  As  an  English  idyll,  therefore,  Enoch  Arden 
fails.  But  in  Dora  we  have  the  simplest  story  of  country 
life  told  in  the  sunplest  words,  and  with  an  almost 
Wordsworthian  austerity  of  {dimse.  There  ii  nothii^  to 
disturb  the  charm  of  perfect  verisimilitude.  It  is,  how- 
ever, a  poem  almost  by  itself.  Nowhere  else  does  Ten- 
nyson work  so  high  an  effect  by  such  simple  means.  In 
the  main  he  is  an  ornate  poet,  and  errs  in  over-di^Mra- 
tion  of  phrase!  In  the  Idylls  of  the  King  the  same 
strength  and  weakness  are  always  associated,  and  the  ex- 
cdlence  and  defect  nm  side  by  side.  As  his  murrative 
riNi  in  passkm  the  phraseology  bectHMs  tenor,  dewer. 


m  THE  MAKEBS  OF  SHOUBH  FOETBT 

less  involved ;  when  his  invention  iladccns,  and  hii  poctie 

impulse  ebbs,  he  always  falls  back  upon  elaborate  {duMe- 
coining  to  cover  his  defect  The  result  is  a  curious  com- 
btoitloB  tuch  as  exists  in  no  other  poet  In  a  score  of 
pages  we  pass  a  dozen  times  from  the  noble  ievcf%  of 
Wordsworth  to  the  fanciful  conceit  of  Keats.  It  is  never 
difficult  to  know  how  the  tide  of  poetic  impube  runs  in 
Tennyson :  when  the  impulse  is  strong  the  style  clarifies 
into  nervous  simplicity;  when  weak,  it  aboondk  in  omats 
decoration  and  scholastic  word-mongering. 

The  /ifyi/s  of  the  King  are  the  work  of  Tennyson's 
mature  manhood,  and  give  us  the  ripest  result  of  his  art 
The  history  of  their  inception  and  completion  is  curious ; 
it  covers  fifty  years,  beginning  with  a  lyric;  "then  with 
an  epical  fragment  and  three  more  lyrics ;  then  with  a 
poem,  Emd  amd  Nmue,  which  is  suppressed  as  soon  as 
It  is  written ;  then  with  four  ronumtic  kiylls,  foUowed  ten 
years  later  by  four  others,  and  two  yeait  later  by  two 
others,  and  thirteen  years  later  by  yet  another  idyll,  .vhich 
ii  to  be  idaced  not  before  or  after  tiie  rest,  but  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  cycle."  Thus  the  world  of  Arthurian  ro- 
mance is  firet  touched  in  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  published 
in  1832;  and  last,  in  Balin  and  Balan,  published  in 

In  the  life  of  every  great  poet  there  ccunes  a  time  when 
a  desire  seizes  him  to  accomplish  some  great  design,  a 
poem  on  a  scale  of  magnitude  which  shall  give  scope  to 
all  his  qualities.  As  a  rule  such  ambitions  have  resulted 
in  &iliure.  Wordsworth  is  not  known  after  at  by  his 
Examion,  but  by  his  lyrics,  and  his  Ode  on  Immortality. 
Ml*.  Browning's  Drama  of  Ext.  cannot  contest  the 
awards  of  ftme  with  the  Una  on  Ccwfer's  Grave.  The 
only  long  poem  by  an  English  author  which  hM  heU  an 


nmiAAHDTRKmTLLIOFTHBXINO  988 

uncontated  place  in  memory  »  Milton's  Parodist  Lost, 
and  it  has  been  pointed  out  tint  tfiii  is  brg^  owfa^  to 

the  Tact  that  it  is  written  in  sections,  and  each  section  can 
be  read  at  a  sitting.   No  doubt  Tennyson  was  fully  con- 
scious of  dw  peril  c(  Us  task,  and  the  warning  of  these 
great  exaiiq>les,  when  he  b^an  to  woric  upon  tlM  lifyUs, 
He  began  at  the  end  of  his  theme,  with  the  Morte 
d' Arthur,  as  though  to  judge  of  his  chances  of  success  by 
an  experiment  on  the  public  taste.   He  was  fortunate 
also  in  the  choice  of  a  subject   In  die  noUa  aaytiH 
which  had  gathered  round  King  Arthur  there  was  a  vast 
field  of  poetiy  which  was  wholly  unwi  'xed.   Over  and 
above  tiieir  moral  and  poetic  elements  they  possessed  a 
national  value.  For  Temiyson  they  had  always  had  a 
peculiar  charm ;  and  we  are  told  that  in  his  solitary  boy- 
hood at  Somersby»  a  favourite  recreation  was  to  enact 
scenes  from  the  Round  Table  with  his  brothera.  These 
myths  provided  him  with  predsdy  what  he  wm  l«Mt  d»la 
to  provide  himself,  a  splendid  story,  or  series  of  stories, 
ready  to  his  hand.   No  critical  reader  can  help  noticing 
that  in  the  power  <rf  pure  invention  Tennyson  is  singu- 
larly weak.   It  is  the  weakness  of  Ms  invention  i^ich  led 
to  the  vicious  elaboration  of  style  which  we  have  remarked 
in  Enoch  Arden.   But  in  the  old  chronicle  of  Sir  Thomas 
Malory  of  the  ftbulous  deeds  of  the  Ki^hts  of  the  Round 
Table,  there  is  a  series  of  stories  complete    every  rad- 
dent  and  detail.   The  chronicle  is  full  of  graphic  force 
and  poetic  mer 't  is  indeed  so  full  of  the  genuine  ele- 
ments of  poetry_ili  ,t  many  persons,  who  have  carefully 
read  Sir  Thomas  Malory,  refuse  to  tiiink  dutf  Tmstymm 
has  improved  upon  him.    In  many  senses  he  has  not 
He  has  often  failed  where  Malory  is  strongest,  necessarily 
perhaps,  because  to  i^ke  Mak»y  acceptable  to  modem 


I 


234  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRT 

ears  it  was  needful  to  smooth  over  a  good  many  awk- 
ward details.  But  what  Tennyson  has  done  is  to  imbue 
the  old  chronicle  with  new  life  and  spirit,  to  interpret  it 
by  a  Christian  insight,  and  to  apply  its  ancient  lessons  to 
the  complex  conditions  of  modern  life  and  thought 

Probably  one  reason  why  Tennyson  chose  Sir  Thomas 
Malory's  famous  chronicle  for  his  greatest  experiment  in 
verse  was  that  it  exactly  coincided  with  his  own  natural 
bent  towards  romantic  allegory.   We  have  to  remember 
the  force  of  the  pre-Raphaelite  movement,  as  it  was 
oUed,  if  we  are  to  understand  the  reasons  of  Tennyson's 
choice.   From  the  simple  nature-worship  of  Wordsworth, 
and  the  more  ethereal  and  ecstatic  nature- worship  of 
Shelley,  there  had  come  a  revulsion  towards  the  glowing 
■pectade  of  mediaeval  life  and  the  chivah-ous  bent  of 
medieval  thought  Just  as  the  pubUcation  of  the  Rt- 
Itques  of  English  Ballad  Poetry,  by  Bishop  Percy,  in  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  worked  a  revival  of 
mediaval  sentiment,  whose  best  fruit  is  found  in  the 
great  romances  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  so  the  experiments 
of  Rossetti  and  Morris  worked  a  similar  revival  in  our 
own.   Among  the  weird  half-lights  of  mediaeval  history 
there  lay  a  land  of  old  romance,  full  of  material  for  the 
poet   Tennyson's  Lady  ef  Skalott,  Sir  Galahad,  and 
St.  Agnes  were  early  experiments  in  this  field  of  poetry, 
and  indicate  how  deeply  he  had  felt  its  fascination.  It 
w«8  only  natural  that  he  should  pursue  the  clue  which  he 
had  thus  discovered.   In  the  mediieval  England  of 
knight  and  lady,  tournament  and  battle,  spell  and  incan- 
tation, adventure  and  romance,  Tennyson  found  an  at- 
mosphere entirely  suited  to  his  genius.   It  was  the  land 
of  glamour  and  enchantment  Thete  the  Imaeinatioa 
and  fiui^ycoukl  move  uBtrMimdtod.  Eveiy  knigbt  mi 


IDYLLS  AND  THE  mYLLB  OF  THE  KING  986 


brave  and  every  lady  fair.  Magnificent  spectacles  con- 
tinually passed  before  the  magtnatttm,  and  affimted.  a 
decmative  artist  like  Tennyson  the  finest  possible  oppor- 
tunity for  the  exercise  of  that  species  of  art  in  which  he 
most  excelled.  And  over  and  above  all  this,  there  ran 
tiiroughout  the  record  of  the  history  a  stroi^  moral 
sentiment,  a  deep  religious  bias.  The  fall  of  King 
Arthur's  Round  Table  was  the  fall  of  a  kingdom,  and 
the  causes  of  its  fall  were  moral  causes.  In  this  respect 
it  was  more  than  a  mere  mediaeval  rec(Mrd:  it  was  an 
eternal  parable  of  human  life.  It  touched  the  moral 
sense  in  Tennyson,  which  had  always  been  quick  and 
sensitive.  What  theme  was  there  more  likely  to  stimu- 
late his  genius  than  this,  and  more  suitable  far  a  great 
epic  ?  The  greatest  of  all  themes  Milton  had  taken,  but 
even  if  he  had  not,  it  was  too  late  to  write  a  religious 
^c.  The  Paradise  Lost  could  only  have  been  written  m 
a  theological  age — an  age  like  the  Puritan,  deej^  ai^ 
rated  with  the  theological  spirit.  To  hit  the  taste  of  the 
nineteenth  century  an  epic  might  be  a  morality,  but  it 
needed  also  human  sentiment  and  passion  in  all  their  full- 
ness. With  that  perfect  artistic  imight  which  hn  lai^ 
failed  him,  Tennyson  saw  the  value  of  his  theme,  and  the 
result  is  that  he  has  produced  the  only  long  poem  which 
has  been  read  by  multitudes  since  Paradise  Lost,  and  a 
poem  which,  in  parts  at  least,  may  fidriy  daUenge  con- 
parison  with  the  noblest  work  of  Milton. 

The  Idylls  of  the  King,  as  Tennyson  handles  them,  are 
a  very  diflferent  thing  from  tiie  simple  chronicle  of 
Ualofy.  It  is  extremely  interesting  X.n  compare  passives 
and  see  how  far  Tennyson  has  followed  and  where  he  has 
left  Malory.  As  regards  the  story  itself,  he  has  inserted 
mxBCf  poetic  fiuMtes,  but  he  has  tavented  little  mrnodung. 


236  THE  MAKERS  OP  ENQUSH  POETRY 
The  incidents  run  paraUel.  In  many  points,  as  we  lime 
said,  there  is  a  graphic  force  in  Malory  which  we  miss  in 
Tennyson,  and  the  short,  simple  words  of  the  medieval 
chronicler  produce  .  deeper  dfect  upon  the  mind  than 
toe  nch  and  subtle  diction  of  the  modern  poet  Itbtlie 
differen^  between  the  rude  but  thrilling  ballad-tune  and 

composer.  In  Bfaloiy  we  think  of  the  theme ;  inTemiy- 
son  more  frequentiy  of  the  artist  But  if  any  onedesiia 

v"''^?  *  »>'-«**e  life  into  a 

l»aid  history,  he  has  only  to  mark  how  faithfuUy  Tenny- 
son has  se.z«l  upon  the  salient  points  ofMalo^^.and 
what  a  wealth  of  artistic  skill  he  lavished  on  them, 
tor  the  chief  fact  to  be  observed  in  Tennyson's  use  of 
Maloiy  «  that  to  the  plain  facts  of  the  chronicler  he 
always  gives  an  allegorical  significance.  He  never  loses 
sight  of  the  moral  lesson.  King  Arthur  standi  out  as  a 
mystic  incarnation,  a  Christ-man-pure,  noble,  unerring : 
"°""g  "mysteriously  into  the  world,  and  vanishiL 
"Vrteriously,  according  to  the  prophecy  of  Merlin: 

From  the  great  ctaep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes. 
He  k  the  perfect  flower  of  purity  and  chivaliy,  and  the 
kingdom  he  seeks  to  found  is  the  veiy  kingdom  of  Christ 
upon  the  earth.  Lancelot,  in  many  respects  the  more 
suime  and  powerful  study,  is  of  the  earth  earthy,  and  by 
turns  base  and  noUe,  and  rightly  describes  himself  in 
the  hour  of  his  remone:^ 

In  me  there  dwells 
Nogteatness,  save  it  be  some  fcr^off  touch 

Of  gieatnessto  kaoir      I  am  not  great ! 
There  is  tha  muu 

h  it  round  thew  two  men  and  Gulnow  Hu*  tta^m 


IDYLLS  AHD  THE  IDYLIiS  OP  THE  KING  287 


interest  of  the  poem  culminates.  The  veiy  over-noUe- 
acnof  Ardiurwofkidiiaster,  and  Guinevere  criei:--- 

He  is  all  Cuilt  who  has  no  ianlt  stall. 

For  «lw  loves  flw  nnst  bave  a  tooch  of  eatdi ; 

The  pathos  of  the  whole  poem  is  that  in  Artbur  we  hsve 
the  incarnation  of  a  high  ideal  which  men  vainly  strive 
after,  and  its  tragedy  is  that  men  do  strive  vainly,  and  that 
all  the  noUe  woi^  of  Arthur  is  undone  by  the  weakness 
and  folly  of  his  followeis.  In  tihe  lesser  cbaracten  of  tlie 
epic  the  all^orical  bent  is  more  fullj^  developed. 
Galahad  is  the  type  of  glorified  asceticism,  visionary  aims, 
spirit  triumphant  over  flesh,  but  after  all  following  wan- 
dering fires  in  a  vain  quest,  and  "  leaving  human  wrot^p 
to  right  themselves."  Gareth  and  LynetU  is  but  a  vaite- 
tion  of  the  story  of  Arthur  and  Guinevere,  and  it  points 
to  tfie  severity  of  struggle  which  awaits  him  who  over^ 
comes  the  flesh.  In  thb  poem  the  aIlq>ory  is  moie  (it- 
tinct  and  beautiful  than  in  either  of  the  others,  and  Tenny^ 
son  has  given  us  no  nobler  concq;>tion  of  victoiy  over 
daub  tiMtt  this:-. 

^  The  Inve  pavUan  slowly  yielded  up 
Thro'  those  black  foldings  that  which  housed  wilUi; 
High  on  a  night-black  hone,  In  night-Uack  anas, 
la  the  halMight.  tlm' the  diss  dawn,  advanced 
The  monster,  and  then  pamed.  and  apdkt  ae  weid. 

It  is  the  King  of  Terrors,  the  spectral  form  of  the  last 
enemy.  But  when  Gareth  rides  forth  to  the  ^rffifibat  and 
Hrflces  the  hdm  of  his  grisly  foe-. 

Out  fton  dds 
IsSMd  the  bright  face  of  a  blooaiiif  hOf , 
Pisah  as  a  flower  new  bom. 


SM  THE  MAKEB8  OF  BNGLBH  POJSTBY 

And  this  is  immoctafity,  the  life  which  springs  out  of 
death. 

Of  the  tenderness  of  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  with  its  im- 
moral picture  of  the  dead  Elaine  saiUng  to  her  last  home 
Mred  by  the  dumb  servitor;  the  gmndeur  of  the  Last 
Tournament,  with  its  ever-present  sense  of  desohrtion  the 
genume  pathos  of  Guinevere,  increasing  stanza  by  stanza 
in  passionate  depth  and  tragic  force.  tiU  we  reach  the 
parting  with  Arthur  in  the  misty  darkness,  amid  the  faint 
blowmg  of  the  unhappy  trumpets  ;  and  of  the  solemnity 
of  Hic  Passtng  of  Arthur,  with  its  dramatic  fullness,  ite 
fiwweU  counsels  of  neglected  wisdom,  its  tragic  mixture 
of  human  despair  and  mystic  heavenly  hope,-of  these 
poems  It  is  needless  to  speak.   If  we  had  to  choose  the 
gnatest  poem  of  Tennyson,  we  should  choose  Guinevere  • 
LT?  impressive,  the  Passing  of  Arthur, 

Nothmg  which  he  has  written  rivals  these  two  or  ap- 
proaches  them  in  the  highest  qualities  of  poetiy!  ITiw 
arethe  mature  work  of  a  great  poet.  They  express  hb 
deepest  convictiofls,  and  sum  up  his  best  wisdom.  Such 

"»«««fC8a8  — 

More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
diis  woild  dreams  of.  Wherefore  let  thy  Toice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day ; 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  Ufe  wMitii  the  brain, 
Jtknowii^  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
BoA  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend  ? 
For  ao  die  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  the  ins  about  the  feet  of  God, 


or— 


The  old  order  changeth.  yielding  place  to  atw 
And  God  fulfills  Himself  in  many  ways. 

Lest  one  good  autom  ahoHld  corrupt  the  woild. 

have  ahieady  passed  into  the  permanent  currency  of  lit«m- 


IDYLUS  AND  THE  IDYLDS  OF  THE  KING  239 


ture.   They  contain  noble  truths  nobly  expressed.  And 
among  the  artistic  lessons  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King  none 
is  better  worth  marking  than  the  perfection  of  Temqwm's 
blank  verse.    Blank  verse  is  the  one  distinctively  English 
measure,  and  the  most  difficult  of  all.    Apparently  it  is 
easy  of  attainment ;  in  reaHty  there  is  nothing  harder. 
There  is  no  form  of  verse  which  so  severely  tests  the  ear 
and  musical  faculty  of  a  great  poet.    Keats  attempted  it 
in  Hyperion  with  magnificent  success,  but  he  gave  it  up 
after  that  one  supreme  effort   Wortb worth's  success  is 
only  partial,  and  there  are  many  passages  in  the  Excur- 
sion which  are  little  better  than  prose  cut  up  into  metrical 
lengths.    Byron  never  touched  it  without  complete  failure. 
Milton  only  has  chosen  it  aa  his  supreme  method  of  ut- 
terance for  epic  poetry,  and  he  has  used  it  as  only  a  giant 
could  use  it    Next  to  Milton  stands  Tennyson.  He 
sinks  far  beiow  Milton  in  grandeur,  but  he  often  excels 
him  in  muskal  modulation.   He  does  not  fiVL  the  an-  witii 
the  wave  like  majesty  of  sound  and  movement  whidi 
characterize  Milton,  but  he  soothes  it  with  an  unfailing 
melody  of  phrase.    It  is  so  distinctive  that  the  merest 
tyro  could  not  fiul  to  reo^ize  tiie  peculiar  charm  of 
Tennyson's  blank  verse,  and  distinguish  it  at  once  in  any 
company.    Often  it  is  mannered,  and  mannerism  is  al- 
ways a  vice.   But  in  the  finest  qualities  of  assonance  and 
resonance  Tennyson  rarely  foils.   His  verse  moves  witit 
perfect  ease,  with  perfect  music,  with  perfect  strength ; 
and  apart  from  the  charm  of  thought  and  subject,  the 
Idylls  of  the  King  show  his  metrical  talent  in  its  finest 
operation.   But  tiie  tliene  also  k  great  and  "<^n,  and 
in  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  we  have  his  noblest  work,  and 
work  such  as  the  very  greatest  poets  might  have  been 
proud  to  produce  and  covetous  to  claim. 


XXIII 


TENNYSON  AS  A  il£UGIOUS  POET 

WHILE  Tennyson  has  touched,  with  more  or 
less  success,  almost  every  stop  in  the  great 
organ  of  poetry,  yet  perhaps  the  strongest 
impression  which  he  leaves  upon  the  mind  is  that  he  is 
essentially  a  religious  poet,  and  it  is  in  the  reahn  of  re- 
ligious poetry  that  his  noblest  work  is  to  be  found.  It 
may  be  said,  indeed,  that  the  religious  spirit  pervades  all 
that  he  has  written.   He  might  almost  be  called  an 
ecclesiastical  poet,  for  his  writings  abound  in  references 
to  the  familiar  sanctities  of  the  Church,— the  font,  the 
altar,  the  church  clock  measuring  out  the  lives  of  men, 
the  graveyard  with  its  yews  whose  roots  grasp  the  bones 
of  the  dead,  the  Eucharist,  in  whidi 

The  kneeling  hamlet  drains 
The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God. 

^owdrop  a  reverence  he  has  had  for  the  Bible  may 
be  inferred  from  Ae  het  Aat  no  fewer  than  three  hun- 
dred Scripture  quotations  have  been  ^covered  in  his 
poetry.  He  has  played  with  agnosticism,  and  expressed 
its  doubts  and  ponderings,  but  he  has  never  become  an 
agnostic.  Poetry  is  feith  "  was  the  saying  of  a  great 
critic,  and  assuredly  without  living  fiUtfa  the  highest 
poetry  is  impossible.  One  may  fairly  suppose  Oat  the 
religious  tendency  in  Tennysott  was  hereditary,  and  every 
influence  of  his  life  conserved  that  tendency  and  strength- 
ened it  There  is  a  remarkable  pma^  in  >  letter  of 

910 


TENNYSON  AS  A  BIZJOI0DB  POET  Ml 

Tennyioii's,  tx^iidi  tiurows  considerable  light  upon  this 
side  of  his  character,  and  which  it  is  interesting  to  coti- 
pare  with  Wordsworth's  similar  confession  of  his  early- 
inability  to  realize  the  potency  of  death.  The  letter  is 
dated  Farringford,  Isle  of  Wight,  May  7,  1874,  and  is 
written  in  reply  to  a  gentleaHui  who  had  ocmimuaicited 
to  him  certain  strange  experiences  he  had  undergone 
under  the  effects  of  anaesthetics.  Tennyson  says :  "  I 
have  never  had  any  revelations  tiirough  anaesthetics,  but 
a  kind  of  waking  trance  (this  for  lack  of  a  better  name) 
I  have  frequently  had,  quite  up  from  boyhood,  when  I 
have  been  all  alone.  This  has  often  come  upon  me 
through  repeating  my  own  name  to  myself  silently  till, 
all  at  once  as  it  were,  out  of  the  intensity  of  tiie  ccmi- 
sciousness  of  individuality,  the  individuality  itself  seemed 
to  dissolve  and  fade  away  into  boundless  being ;  and  this 
not  a  confimd  state,  but  tiie  clearest  of  the  clearest,  the 
surest  of  the  surest,  utterly  beyond  words,  where  6eaA 
was  an  almost  laughable  impossibility,  the  loss  of  per- 
sonality (if  so  it  were)  seeming  no  extinction,  but  the 
only  true  life.  I  am  ashamed  of  my  feeble  description. 
Have  I  not  said  the  state  is  utterly  bey<md  words?" 

This  is  a  perfect  description  of  the  philosophic  and  re- 
ligious dreamer,  and  narrates  an  experience  commoner  in 
the  East  than  in  the  West  The  deduction  which  Ten- 
nyson himself  makes  from  his  experience  is  diat  it 
verifies  the  truth  of  the  separate  existence  of  the  human 
spirit,  and  that  that  spirit "  will  last  for  aeons  and  aeons." 
SottMOing  of  the,^ame  state  and  experience  n  described 

And  more,  my  son  t  for  more  than  once  HitB  I 
Sat  all  alone,  revolviiy  ia  mjrwif 
The  void      is     qradM  of  myself. 


SiS  THE  MAKWBS  OF  BMGLIBB  VOKISr 

The  mortal  limh  of  the  Self  wu  looted 
And  puKd  into  tht  NunelcM.  m  •  dood 
Melts  into  IfasvM.  I  toocbed  my  Bmb*— the  Babt 
W«w  itnage,  not  mine— and  yet  no  shade  of 
Bat  otter  dearneas,  and  turough  loss  of  Self 
The  gain  of  such  large  life  as  matched  with  c 
Were  Sun  to  siwrk— unshadowable  in  woidt, 
Tkcatclm  but  shadows  of  a  shadow  workL 

A  poet  so  sensitively  constituted,  and  Uable  to  such 
moments  of  spiritual  trance  as  this,  could  haidly  ftfl  to 
be  a  religious  poet  To  him  the  unseen  world  would  be 
an  eva-present  reaUty,  and  he  would  live  as  seeing  that 
which  is  invisible.  Gazing  into  what  Arthur  HaUam  has 
<aUed  "  the  abysmal  deeps  of  peisonality,"  be  would  be 
always  conscious  of  the  greatness  of  the  soul,  and  the 
bought  of  final  annihilation  would  be  to  him  impossible. 
For  him  death  would  be  aheady  abolished,  and  his  vision 
would  be  (tf  life  for  evermore. 


'Tis  life  whereof  our  nerves  are  i  

More  life  and  fuller,  that  wc  want^ 

Is  his  own  utterance  of  his  own  desire.  And  from  this 
calm  and  steadfast  belief  in  immortality,  this  infallible 
assurance  of  the  eternity  of  personal  Ufe,  aU  that  is 
noblest  and  serenest  in  the  poetry  of  Tennyson  has  risen. 

But  from  personal  belief  in  immortality  to  the  embodi- 
ment of  religious  belief  in  religious  forms,  it  is  a  long 
step,  and  Tennyson  has  shown  considerable  antagonism 
to  religious  forms.  If  we  glanoe  over  his  writings,  leav- 
ing out  the  In  Memoriam,  which  is  the  greatest  achieve- 
ment in  religious  poetry  which  our  age  has  produced,  we 
■ee  that  he  has  carefully  studied  religious  problems,  and 
has  reached  certain  memorable  condusioos.  First  of  all, 
we  find  in  the  three  poems  of  St.  Simm$  StyUtts,  Sir 


Tunmoir  as  a  BEUoions  poet  s48 


Galahad,  and  St.  Agnes'  Evt,  Tennyson's  statement  of, 
•ad  judgnent  upon,  reSgiotis  mysticism.  St.  Simtou 
Stylites  is  something  more  than  a  historical  pafMt:  ft 
is  a  satire  upon  the  monastic  spirit  and  ideal  of  life. 
The  (igure  of  St.  Simeon  on  his  pillar,  alternately  covet- 
ing aad  cursing  the  worid,  sighing  for  the  shade  of 
comfortable  roofs,  warm  clothes,  and  wholesome  food, 
and  then  dilating  with  {Mide  at  his  own  heraie  reauada- 
tion,  as  he  cries : 

I  wake :  the  chiU  tUn  sparkle.  I  am  wet 

m  diiacUnr  dtws.  or  sdff  widi  cnddfay  ftott, 

is  a  monument  of  all  that  is  harshest,  grossed  and  moA 
repellent  in  the  monastic  ideal  of  life.  The  very  humil- 
ity of  the  man  is  loathsome ;  it  is  the  pride  which  apes 
lumflify.  HefmybeaUheMQftheis, 

The  basest  of  mankind. 
From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust  of  sis. 
Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce  meet 
Forttospsof  devils, nadwMi  blasphemy  ; 

but  hb  depth  of  seiMunniliation  »  fivdcal  when  it 

becomes  a  plea  for  saiatliood»  aad  iiriiea  the  MCKt  hope 
of  his  life  is  that 

A  time  may  come,  yea,  even  now. 
Wben  yea  may  worship  me  without  reproach. 
And  bum  a  fragrant  lamp  before  my  bones. 
When  I  am  gathered  to  the  glorious  saints. 

The  most  virulent  poison  of  monasticism  is  in  the 
man's  blood,  and  pne  knows  not  which  is  more  loath- 
some, the  humiliation  or  the  arabitioa  of  St.  Smemt, 
Yet  in  the  main  it  is  a  just  and  true  portraiture,  and  ap- 
pearing, as  it  did,  at  a  time  when  the  public  mind  was 
being  roused  into  frenay  over  the  r-vival  of  mediaeval- 


M4  THE  MAXESB  OF  ENGUBH  POETRY 

Imb  in  liM  Gkufdi  of  England,  it  was  a  tremendous  re- 
buke.  Tennyson  marks  in  St.  Simtm  bit  utter  ablior. 

rence  of  the  monastic  ideal  of  life.  Self-renunciation  he 
can  preach,  but  renunciation  which  despises  and  forsakes 
the  glad  activitiei  of  daily  Ufe,  as  in  themselves  foul  and 
unclean,  he  wiU  not  regard  other  thaa  •  form  of  ec- 
clesiastical madness. 

Nor  is  his  sense  of  the  imperfection  of  religious  mys- 
ticism IcM  strong  in  such  poems  as  St.  Agnes '  Eve  and  Sir 
Galahad.  Just  as  St.  Simeon  expresses  all  that  Is  most 
degrading  in  monasticism.  tiiese  two  beautiful  poems  ex- 
press aU  that  is  loveUest  and  most  tender  in  its  forms  of 
life.  In  St.  Simeon  tiie  mediaeval  religious  spirit  is  intense 
self-consciousness,  sinking  into  uttermost  degradattoa;  in 
St.  Agnes  it  is  renunciation  of  self,  rising  into  rapture 
and  beatific  vision.  It  is  tiie  pure  and  yearning  spirit  of 
a  true  woman-saint  which  sighs  for  the  heavenly  Bride- 
groom, and  cries,  as  the  trance  (tf  ecstasy  deepens  into 
the  vision  of  death. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  fluhet  come  and  go ; 

All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors 

And  strows  her  light  below, 

And  deepens  on  and  np  f  The  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 

For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits 

To  make  me  pure  from  rin. 

The  Sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  Sabbath  deep  and  wide  

A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 
The  Bridegroom  with  His  bride. 

Not  merely  is  the  expression  of  the  sentiment  in  these 
verMt  beautiftil,  but  the  sentiment  itself  is  beautiful.  It 
ii  the  cawnce  of  aU  that  is  mort  devout  in  conventual 


TI9KYBON  AS  ▲  BKUOIODB  PCHET  MS 


piety.  It  it  the  ttentitncnt  we  can  fancy  floating  forth  in 
silence  from  the  half-opeiMd  Uptvt  St.  Ndtrntt  m  sh« 
sleeps  on  that  memorable  summer  afternoon,  in  that  atti- 
tude of  pathetic  weariness  which  a  great  artist  has  so 
exquisitely  interpreted,  when  she  sees  in  dreams  the  de- 
sceadiag  eroM,  and  her  soul  smiles  to  greet  the  sdemn 
presage  of  approaching  nuutyrdom. 

The  picture  of  Sir  Galahad,  going  forth  in  his  pure 
•ad  noble  youth  upmi  his  lifelong  quest  of  the  Holy 
Gfail,  is  not  less  touching  in  its  wgetX  d  saiirtty  come- 
cntion.  He,  too,  moves  in  hii  viikm  of  holy  tiih^gs  : 

A  gentle  lound,  an  awfal  9|ht ; 

Three  angels  bear  the  Hoty  GnQ ; 
Widi  Mded  feet  in  tloies  of  wUM. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  tkf. 
And  through  the  monntain-wiiOs 

A  rolling  organ-harmony 
Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 

Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 
"  O  jnat  and  faithful  Knight  of  God. 

KideoBi  the  prise  is  near!" 

This  is  a  noble  picture  of  the  religious  knight,  the  ideal 
knight  of  chivaby,but  not  tiie  less  his  religious  mysticism 
is  his  weakness.  This  does  not  appeu  in  this  poem, 
because  here  Tennyson  only  attempts  to  reproduce  in  ac- 
curate form  and  outline  what  the  spirit  o;  . '  igious  mys- 
tidsm  in  the  da^  of  chivahy  had  to  say  of  itself,  and  in 
so  far  the  poem  is  a  dramatic  personation ;  but  when,  in 
later  life,  Tennyson  touches  the  same  theme,  it  is  with  a 
difference  of  handling,  or  rather  a  fuller  handling.  It  is 
■mystictsm  not  less  tiiaa  wnmg-doing  iriikh  h^pe  tobnak 


9M  THSlfAXIBSar 

upthtlmightiy  Okdwof  thtKouadTaUi^  Aad«M 
tkt reproMh  of  Kiag ArtinriHMi ht ayt: 

Wm  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  laid. 
To  thoM  who  went  upon  the  Holy  Que*. 
That  most  of  then  would  MDow  wilcriM  fmu 
LMtiaUtegiufadM? 
Aad  OM  of  AoH  M  wben  th<*  vision  cane, 
My  greateat  hardly  will  belie    he  saw  ; 
Another  halli  beheld  it  afar  off. 
And  leaviqf  hwiau  wrongs  to  right  ttaemialvw 
Carei  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life ; 
And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to  fact. 
And  now  hb  cluir  derin*  Ua  bm  !■  wiitm. 
However  they  may  crown  hfan 


That  IS  the  reply  of  Tennyson  to  reUgbvi  Wyoticism. 
For»ome  it  is  a  wandering  fire,  dying  down  at  last  a 
iiniBUi  and  oonfu^ ;  for  some  a  pious  cheat,  a  beauti- 
ful delusion  which  in  saner  mommti  they  thcnmlwiiii  om- 
not  accept ;  for  the  purest  spirits  of  all,  capable  of  tiie 
highest  and  devoutest  religious  ecstasy,  it  is  after  all  only 
•ooM^Mg  seen  ^u-  off-a  fitfiil  and  capricious  radiance, 
as  though  one  dreamed  he  dreamed,  and  hoped  be  iwpcd, 
but  held  no  certainty  or  assurance  of  either  faith  or  vision. 
Its  effect  is  to  produce  in  men  that  fatal  "  other  vorld- 
lincn,"  whidi  carta  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life,  *nd 
passes  through  the  evil  ^ooa  of  titis  work!  MMed 
eyes,  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right  themselves.    It  is 
not  the  soliury  rapture  of  the  idealist  which  helps  the 
world,  Mid  if  bwnan  piety  bas  no  help  in  it  for  the  world, 
wherein  lies  its  virtue,  and  what  title  has  it  to  our  mt- 
ence?   It  is,  after  all.  a  sort  of  sublimated  saHUnHS, 
and  on  that  ground  Tennyson  condemns  it,  aad  dismisses 
H  as  wboUx  ii»«<fcctiial  to  meet  tbe  real  needs  of  the 
bunansouL  Aad  it  is  abaost  wi*  a  tswb  of 


mnnmm  M^A 


scorn  he  adds  ttat  tfM  etyttic  aiirki  oro  -u-^  m  <jtib«r 
cwonation  here. 

Two  other  poems  uf  Tennyson  deserve  m^ation  bcre^ 
as  still  furthor  illusti^ting  his  religious  at^ade.   la  the 
Vkimtf^  he  daceikn  the  pervasion  ci  natwM  «Me 
follows  the  pui'  uit  of  lust      4  tti  Wttr  ens 

in  despairing  in  delity  and  cynkism    That     'wJk  a 
maa  sows  he  aku  reaps,  and  tk»  wagr  of  m.  imik 
Tkm  man  he  patats  is  uready  i  dead  man  th     -h  ' 
moves  still  with  some  ghastly  embiance 
"  S^y        gap-toot&ed,   a  coic  wini       deatn  comw 
with  him,  a  ndned  trNt  receives  i^m ;  a  -    Mssg  raeni- 
ae^  vMdi  jean  at  ai  thfe^  «fed  r  ^  iJiina,  it  tiM 
one  temper  which      .-ive     .     tr       is  memory  is 
stored  only  witk  sensual  rei...,ilec  oor-    ^^f,i<M»  delights, 
ttiK:iean  aad  hMcfoi  {rictuim   H«  t  «  ao  fMi  kft  is 

yrttudj^dp '     he  two  !B  o 

LilSkeeni  gVM'p^i' 
W(0 1 ow,  when 

ftae  mouths  >  bajb 
IHmm  t  to  be  goed         3%  _ 

Bveiy  hi      wht  :>i 
is  a  cjot  of  w.    iet  du- 

Ifisc^  vUb  :unia(  puksef  hsB* 

h£a  a  tfse  mi.,  id  k^k  the  whirlwind.  He 
hao  goae  t  '^"^^e  f^rt  opp  ite  of  religious  mjrsticism, 
and  has  sunk  ir   jc    ami  med  animalism.  The 

s^ted  voluptu^-  vmv^tf  ck  o{»  into  the  aged  cynic, 
a:  '  having  oui.rage  purity  id  virtue  through  a  loi^; 
Ik    Bnally  brings  himself  to  believe  that  neither  has  any 

existence.  And  it  is  thus,  with  true  insight,  Tenny- 
sott  oMiraliKs  on  tiie  pofftndt  he  paiirti : 


248  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLIBH  FOETBT 

Then  mm»  oat  ipate :  Behold,  it  was  a  crime 
Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore  with  time," 

for  the  senses  cany  in  themselves  their  own 
mrilNitioo. 

Another  said,  The  crime  of  sense  became 

The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame  • " 

*'  *L"!r*'*'*      "•'""y  quenched 'his  power. 
A  BtOe  gnia  of  cmiKieaoe  made  Um  Mw." 

In  the  last  suggestion  only  is  there  any  hope,  but 
Tennyson  confesses  it  is  at  best  but  a  shadowy  and 
iiurticiilate  hope.   So  far  as  we  can  see  the  man  has 
slam  himself,  and  there  is  no  escape  from  the  retribution 
he  has  merited.   The  failure  of  mysticism  is  great,  but 
mfimtely  greater  is  the  failure  of  materialism;  for  while 
one  ens  by  overstrained  yearning  after  Divine  things, 
falling  mto  credulous  fantasy  and  rapture,  the  other  errs 
by  love  of  carnal  things,  and  falls  at  last  into  such  a 
depth  of  moral  debasement  that  it  can  hardly  be  said 
tte  spirit  lives  at  aU.   The  one  may  be  crowned  other- 
where;  it  is  at  least  certain  that  flie  other  is  avenged 
even  here.  * 

The  other  poem,  which  completes  Tennyson's  view  oT 
the  reUgious  needs  of  life,  is  the  Pa/ace  of  Art.  There  is 
a  sort  of  midway  house  which  men  seek,  a  halting-place 
between  the  material  and  the  mystical  They  turn  from 
the  mystical  in  incredulity,  and  revolt  from  the  carnal  in 
<J»gU8t  They  retain  spiritual  purity  and  inteUectual 
integrity,  and  are  quick  to  respond  to  the  promptings  of 
the  esthetic  temper,  which  continuaUy  begets  in  tiieai 
^ue  dissatisfactions.  Why  not  then  find  rest  in  Art  ? 
Wfty  not  gratify  the  religious  instinct  in  tiie  worship  of 

\    \  °?  ^  "^"^  «>e  only  rc^ 

religion?  A.  for  tl»  wodd,  fiillatitiiof) 


TENNT80N  AB  A  BXLIOIOUB  K»T  M9 


antmaltsm,  let  that  be  fonaken  and  forgotten,  as  an 
impure  vision  which  is  best  ignored  and  put  out  of  si^it 
There  is  splendour  in  the  sunrise,  glory  in  the  flower, 
grace  in  the  statue,  delicate  su^estion  and  subtle  pleas- 
ure in  tile  tapestry  and  Hbc  picture,  infinite  delight  and 
solace  in  the  revelatiMM  <tf  art;  let  it  be  ours  to  seek 
these,  and  find  in  thr-^e  our  peace.  So  the  soul  builds 
herself  a  lordly  pleasure-house  wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to 
dwelL 

It  realizes  the  utmost  dreams  of  beauty.  Before  it 
streams  the  rainbow's  "orient  bow";  the  light  aerial 
gallery,  golden-railed, "  burns  like  a  fringe  of  fire  " ;  the 
air  is  sweetened  witii  perpetual  incense,  and  made  mn- 
sical  with  the  chiming  of  silver  bcJ.^' ;  slender  shaft,  rich 
mosaic,  wreaths  of  light  and  colour,  "  rivers  of  melodies," 
singing  of  nightingales,  and  fragrance  of  "  pure  quintes- 
sences ol  pieGtoui  cSk "  are  everywhere,  ami  it  ii  a 
veritabte  palace  of  ddi^it,  which  poets  only  build,  and 
human  eyes  have  never  seen.  The  world  lies  far  beneath 
the  huge  crag-platforms,  and  the  men  labouring  in  it  are  as 

Darkening  droves  of  swine, 
TtuA  nmge  e'er  jpeadsr  ptaia. 

GraedB  have  ceased  to  perplex  the  mind  — 

I  take  ponnifaHi  of  nan's  ssind  and  dasdt 
I  care  not  what  tbe  lecti  laay  hnmL 

I  »t  as  God.  holding  no  form  ttami. 
But  contemplating  all. 

And  in  what  does  it  all  end  ?  It  ends  in  the  bitter  ay 
at  Vutttas  wmitahm,  as  aO  such  experimenli  mtat 
tfways  end.  Dull  stagnation  closes  on  the  soul,  and  the 
pursuit  of  selfish  ease  ends  in  agonizing  despair.  Beauty 
becomes  loathsome,  and  its  daily  vision  is  as  a  fire  which 
frets  the  fladi,  tisfea  at  lilt  tht  Mid  odaiBf: 


250  THE  MAKERS  OF  BNGUBH  FOEI&T 

I  am  on  fire  within ; 

What  it  it  that  will  talw  away  m  riai, 
AadwrtBM  lot  Iter 

*  >dl3tmctifytmwak  

Make  me  a  cottage  in  die  Yak.  AtnM. 

Where  I  may  mourn  and  praj. 

It  is  a  great  and  memorable  lesson  memorably  tai  ght 
Humaa  responsibility  cannot  be  ignored,  whether  ia  the 
monastery,  the  tavern,  or  the  pahce  of  art  The  first 
duty  of  man  is  to  his  brothers,  and  that  is  the  soul  of  aU 
religion.   Society  annexes  obligations  to  its  privileges, 
•nd  the  one  must  be  shared  with  the  other.  These' 
poems  represent  the  reUgioui  attitude  of  Tennyson,  and 
It  IS  an  attitude  eminently  sane  and  noble.   They  breathe 
the  spirit  of  a  rational  and  serviceable  human  piety. 
They  nebuke  at  once  asceticism  and  sensuality.  They 
pierce  to  the  essential  hoUownen  of  aU  mere  art-woiriiip 
as  a  substitute  for  the  worship  of  God,  and  they  contain 
teachmgs  which  were  never  more  needed  than  in  tbe 
fnovtioa  wlikii  Teaayson  hm  addressed. 


xxnr 


TENNYSON'S  IN  MEMORIAM 

WE  now  come  to  the  most  distinctive,  and,  in 
many  essential  characteristics,  the  greatest  of 
Tennysmi's  poems.  In  Mtmoriam,  Pub- 
Ushed  in  1850,  it  is  work  of  his  prime,  and  contains 
the  most  perfect  representation  of  his  genius.  The  per- 
sonal histoty  on  which  it  is  founded  is  well  known.  It 
commemorates  (me  of  the  nd^est  of  human  friendships, 
and  one  of  the  noblest  of  men.  Arthur  HaUam,  the  ton 
of  Henry  Hallam,  the  celebrated  historian,  was  bom  in 
Bedford  Place,  London,  on  the  ist  of  February,  181 1. 
The  fiusily  afterwards  removed  to  Wimpole  ^reet,  whidi 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  mce  I  stand* 
Here  in  the  long,  unlovely  street, 
Deen.  where  my  heart  was  wont  10  kMl 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand. 

In  October,  1828,  Arthur  Hallam  went  into  residence  at 
Cambridge,  and  it  was  there  he  met  Tennyson.  The  af- 
fection whidi  sprang  up  between  them  must  have  been 
immediate,  fo  in  1830  we  find  them  diKOMtng  a  plan  for 
publishing  conjointly  a  volume  of  poems.  One  of  Ten- 
nyson's most  striking  phrases  in  the  Paiace  of  Art, « the 
abytrnd  deeps^f  pefMnaHty,"  is  directly  borrowed  fifooi 
a  phrase  of  Hallam't  r  *  \  4— with  whom  alone  reskdM 
ab^mal  secrets  of  pet  ^y."  It  was  one  of  those  rare 
and  beautiful  friendships  which  sometimes  visit  the  morn- 
iag  boon  oflii^  hi  which  iatdlMtual  sympathy,  not  kB 


852  THE  MAKjilBS  OF  ENOUHH  POETRY 


than  love,  plays  a  foremost  part  On  the  15th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1833,  Arthur  Hallam  lay  dead  On  the  3d  of 
January,  1834,  his  body  was  brought  over  from  Vienna, 
v^cfc  he  died,  and  was  interred  it  manor  aisle,  Qevedon 
Chtncli,*  Smneneishire — 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 
The  darkened  heart  that  beat  bo  omr  ; 
Thejr  laid  him  by  the  pkaMut  dMm. 

And  in  the  heariag  of  die  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

When  and  where  In  Memoriam  was  conceived  or  com- 
menced it  is  impossible  for  us  to  know,  but  it  will  thus 
be  seen  that  seventeen  yean  dapsed  between  Oe  destt 
of  Arthur  Hallam  and  the  publication  of  Tennyvon's 
exquisite  elegy.  It  is  tolerably  certain  that  the  poem 
was  actually  in  process  of  construction  during  the  whole 
oi  this  long  period,  tor  it  bears  in'  itself  marks  of  Am 
growth,  of  gradual  accretion  and  elaboration.  Probably 
the  work  was  begun  with  one  or  two  of  the  earlier  sec- 
tions, irtitdi  simply  bewail  in  poignant  verse  Tennyson's 
sense  of  unspeakable  loss,  and  which  possess  the  solem- 
nity and  self-containedness  of  separate  funeral  hymns, 
rather  than  the  consecutiveness  of  an  elaborate  poem. 
The  history  and  character  of  the  poem  sustain  this  view. 
In  seventeen  years  the  anguish  of  Uie  deepest  sorrow 
must  needs  show  signs  of  healing.  Grief  grows  less 
clamant,  and  more  meditative.   It  passes  scnnewhat  out 

I  Ib  Oe  fint  adUkm  of  Im  Mtmoriam  Tennyson  says  in  "the  chanceL" 
^  ""i  ^^"^  wcim,  and  is  altered  in  sobseqwBt  aditioiis  to 


TEwmracHre  m  mkmobiam  ms 


of  ftc  P^[ioii  of  pcfBOBtl  bittenmi  into  tfie  minis  of 

philosophic  reflection  and  religious  resignation.  Time 
does  not  destroy  the  sense  of  loss,  but  it  lifts  the  soul  to 
a  place  of  broader  outlook  and  calmer  vision.  As  we 
read  In  Memariam  this  process  is  cleariy  detailed,  and 
there  is  much  in  tiie  structure  <A  the  poem  to  suggest 
that  from  a  few  mournful  verses,  cast  off  in  the  bitterest 
hour  of  bereavement  as  a  solace  to  the  w«.  mded  spirit, 
Tam3^n  gradually  enlarged  his  plan,  till  he  had  woven 
into  it  all  the  philosophic  doubts,  tiie  religious  hopes,  the 
pious  aspirations,  which  the  theme  of  human  loss  could 
suggest  to  a  thoughtful  mind  and  noble  spirit. 

Concerning  the  general  stnicture  and  duuracter  of  tte 
poem,  one  or  two  things  are  worth  remark.  It  diflen 
essentially  from  any  other  eleg^y  in  the  English  language, 
both  as  to  metrical  arrangement  and  artistic  colour.  Ejig- 
Ush  Uterature  is  not  ridi  in  elegy,  but  it  possesses  in 
Milton's  Lycidas,  in  Gray's  famous  poem,  in  Shelley's 
Adonais,  and  in  Arnold's  noble  lamentation  for  his  father 
and  his  Tkyrsis,  isolated  specimens  of  elegiac  poetry  as  fine 
as  uqr  literature  can  boast  Of  tiiese  great  elegies,  ^d- 
ley's  Adonais  is  the  longest  and  the  nirfdert;  Milton's 
Lycidas  the  most  classic  in  gravity  and  sweetness ;  Gray's 
Eltgyin  a  Country  Churchyards^  most  perfectly  polished ; 
Armrfd's  Lhus  in  Rugby  Chapel  die  most  eflbetive  in 
moral  view  and  spirit.  But  of  the  last  two  it  will  be  at  once 
perceived  that  neither  aims  at  the  constructive  breadth 
of  a  prolonged  poem,  nor  would  the  metrical  form  sus- 
tain tlie  Inirdeiw  of  great  lengtii.  The  constant  evfi 
menaces  elegy  is  monotony,  and  it  is  the  most  difficult 
to  be  avoided  by  the  very  nature  of  the  theme.  Gray 
avoids  it  by  aiming  at  aphoristic  brevity,  and  by  polish- 
vB%  tsvcy  ppfasc  wun  laa  moif  cowunuwnc  aiTifnc  skmi 


iu  TBE  UAXXB8  or  WmMB  V(mrST 

and  patience.   Arnold  adopts  for  liii  purpow  a  peculiar 
unrhjnned  metre,  which  stimulates  the  ear  without  weary- 
ing it,  but  which  could  not  be  sustained  except  within 
the  limitt  of  brevity  which  he  has  set  for  himself.  MU- 
ton  is  similarly  brief,  and  Ljwuias  reads  more  Hke  a  noble 
fragment  of  the  antique  than  an  English  poem  written  for 
English  readers.   No  doubt  Milton's  genius  would  have 
■erved  him  perfectly  if  he  had  attempted  a  Lyddas  of 
thrice  the  length,  for  he  has  attempted  no  form  of  poetty 
without  absolute  success;  but,  however  that  may  be,  he 
wasfaught  by  his  artistic  instincts  in  writing  elegy  to 
compress  within  the  narrowest  limits  of  space  his  lament 
for  the  noble  deac\   Shelley  does  indeed  write  at  length, 
but  there  are  two  things  to  sustain  him  in  his  daring 
effort;  first,  he  uses  a  metre  singularly  pliable  and  reso- 
nant; and,  secondly,  he  leaves  his  theme  at  will,  and 
weaves  into  his  poem  a  hundred  exquisite  suggestfoas  of 
natural  beauty  and  imaginative  vision,  so  that  while  his 
theme  is  mournful  his  poem  is  often  ecstatic,  and  monot- 
ony is  avoided  by  richness  of  fancy  and  variety  of  theme. 
In  what  respects  does  /»  Metnoriam  difler  from  these 
great  masterpieces  ?   Wherein  does  its  distinctivtt  dtann 
and  greatness  lie  ? 

In  the  first  place  it  diflbs  entirely  in  metrical  form  and 
wrangement.  Properiy  speaking,  it  is  hymnal  In  form. 
Some  of  its  stanzas  are  admirably  suited  for  ChristiMi 
worehip,  and  no  doubt  wiU  appear,  with  slight  alterations, 
in  the  hymnal  collections  of  the  future.  In  this  respect 
It  IS  distinctively  English,  and  appeals  strongly  to  Ew- 
lish  tastes.  But  what  is  Uiere  that  could  be  conceived  as 
more  monotonous  than  a  hymn  of  a  thousand  stanzas? 
The  hymnal  form  maybe  exceUentiy suited  fordeffv. 
buthowititpoMibletDooaihiaea  fotmiaiiMifm- 


Aotonout  wtdi  a  thene  whose  chief  peril  is  monotony 
without  producing  a  poan  ndttdi  wewM  lamiSmMy 

dull  and  tedious  ?  That  was  the  problem  Teni^son  had 
to  solve,  and  he  solved  it  in  two  wa>'s.  lostad  of  the 
ordinary  hymnal  quatrain,  he  adopted  a  form,  not  un- 
known indeed  in  English  literature,  bat  siniisllji  am  to 
modem  readers,  in  which  the  first  and  hst  and  the  two 
middle  lines  of  the  verses  rhyme.  Aofy  one  who  will 
take  tile  trouble  to  compare  these  fonas  witl  at  once  see 
how  greatly  Tennyson's  variation  in  mndiihtinn 
and  flexibility.  He  had  already  attempted  it  in  one  of 
his  earlier  poems, "Love  thou  thy  land  with  love  far 
brought,"  and  had  no  doubt  beoi  stnidc  with  its  power 
€^  musical  expression.  If,  as  we  Mrarise,  /»  Mmmimm 
grew  slowly  from  certain  fragmentary  stanzas,  thrown  ofT 
in  the  first  agony  of  grief,  no  doubt  that  was  the  metrical 
foon  in  whidi  they  were  written.  A  fsm  ame  pakct 
for  elegiac  poetry  could  not  be  eoMsaiiiMi;  bat  iMw 
could  it  be  applied  to  an  elaborate  poem  of  many  hun- 
dreds of  lines?  This  Tennyson  answered  by  dividing 
his  poem  into  diort  sections,  eadi  one  complete  in  itsdf, 
and  expressing  some  particular  tiio^jfat  or  aeattMMb 
It  is  to  this  division  of  the  poem,  in  part  at  least,  that 
much  of  its  popularity  must  be  attributed.  I  have  ah-eady 
quoted  tlie  saying  of  an  acute  critic  Aat  Oe  reason  why 
people  read  Paradise  Lost  is  that  it  is  arnu^ged  kt  mc 
tions,  and  can  therefore  be  put  down  and  resumed  at  will. 
This  is  eminently  true  of  In  Memoriam.  It  is  a  brilliant 
cottstdbtioa  of  ^hort  poems,  held  togedio'  in  Acfdutas. 
order  1^  one  great  sustaining  sentiment  We  CM  opia 
it  where  we  will,  read  as  much  as  we  wish,  and  put  it 
down  again,  without  any  perplexing  soMe  of  luiviq|[ 
aliased  the  ped^  maning,  or  deitarad  hii  dee  ^ 


966  THE  llAgKRfl  OF  SNGOJBH  FOXTBT 

tiiought  Of  course  this  is  not  ^  irtudtaf*  ndkod 

of  reading  Ih  Memoriam,  but  it  is  a  method  often  forced 
upon  busy  men  by  the  necessities  of  their  position ;  and 
tfie  6et  tint  In  Memoriam  is  as  truly  a  cluster  of  small 
poems  as  a  great  poem  in  itself,  has  no  doiM  h^)ed  Hi 
popularity,  and  has  fully  justified  the  artistic  instinct 
which  suggested  its  division  into  sections. 

Another  point  worthy  of  special  renuu-k  is  that  not 
merely  in  form,  but  in  all  its  cdouring.  In  Mmarimn  is 
a  distinctively  English  poem.    Milton's  noble  elegy  we 
have  already  spoken  of  as  a  fragment  of  the  antique, 
•nd  its  yibxi»  conception  and  spirit  is  severely  classic, 
^elley  goes  to  the  same  source  to  find  inqiintkm  for 
his  elegy  on  Keats.   Save  the  passages  which  directly 
touch  on  the  unhappy  fate  of  Keats,  there  is  nothing  in 
the  poem  which  is  distinctively  English.   Its  aUusions 
are  classic;  its  sky  is  the  sky  of  Italy;  its  tcenay  hai 
a  gorgeousness  of  colour  and  a  pomp  unknown  in  the 
gray  latitudes  of  the  north.   Over  the  dead  body  of 
Keats,  Shdley  buildB  a  |^ork>us  aiul  fimtastic  tomb— a 
sepulchre  of  foreign  splendoitn,  and  the  earth  that  hoUs 
him  in  her  bosom  is  a  warmer  and  more  glorious  earth 
than  that  land  of  sombre  skies  and  gray  seas  where  his 
8«aia*  was  sufiered  to  bloaiom  and  decay  unheeded. 
Gray,  indeed,  is  English ;  Arnold  is  English,  but  with  the 
trace  of  Greek  culture  always  perceptible ;  but  Miltor.  and 
SheUey  both  go  boldly  to  the  classics  for  their  inspiration, 
and  hMe  written  elegies  whidi  are  English  in  name  in- 
deed, but  classical  in  spirit  and  design.   It  is  tiie  diann  of 
In  Mtmoriam  that  it  is  steeped  in  English  thought  and 
spirit   Its  sights  and  sounds  are  the  familiar  sights  and 
sounds  of  nma  life  In  England.  It  Is  England,  and  no 
other  knd,  that  Is  dflieribad  hi  Unm  lam  than 


nonnnBOiPB  nr  memobiam 


867 


Ifoir  flidM  tfie  btt  long  Mieak  of  snow. 
Now  buif  e«M  cvRy  mmm  of  quick 

Abeot  tiM  flewwy  ifmiw,  and  thkk 
9f  MkM  noli  dw  vMtts  (raw. 

New  rinfs     woodland  loud  and  loi^ 
The  distance  ukes  a  lovelier  hue. 
And,  drowned  in  yonder  Uviiq;  blue. 

Hm  budt  bic—ii  a  ilihikN  song. 

Now  dance  die  ighis  on  lawn  and  In. 

The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  nh^ 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail, 
Ob  idadfaig  Mens  or  ^Bttaat  en  t 

Where  now  the  sea^aew  pipes,  or  divw 
la  yonder  gleaming  green,  and  fly 
Tbe  happy  birds,  that  chaitge  their  sky 

Tie  beBd  and  bnod. 

All  the  colour  of  the  pictures  drawn  finom  life  and  Mtara 
is  English,  and  can  be  mistaken  for  no  other.  It  is  the 
Christnas  Eve  we  all  have  known  which  he  thus  describei 
for  ut: 

The  dme  draws  anr  dw  birth  of  Christ ; 

The  moon  is  Ud,  the  night  is  still : 

A  single  church  below  the  hB 
b  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

It  is  the  English  summer,  whose  mellow  eventides  «e  aU 
have  rgoiced  in.  when  '<  returning  from  afar  " : 

And  bruddng  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  vdl 
The  adlk  that  bubbled  in  die  paO. 

Aad  hnd^  of  dM  hOMyed  hewfl. 

ISambgn  fai  TonytMl  iraria  wffl  tiwre  be  feuad 

more  perfect  pictures  of  Englidi  scenery  and  seasoM 
executed  with  more  artistic  delicacy  and  skill  than  in 
/«  Jfmmam,   They  are  all  exquisitely  finislied,  mik 


958  THE  MAKERS  07  ENQLI8H  POETBY 


■omrthing  of  tiw  teboured  patience  of  pktnras  on  ivory 

or  porcelain,  and  each  is  perfect  in  its  way.  The  eflecti 
are  often  gained  in  single  phrases,  so  happy,  so  lumi- 
nous, so  exact,  that  we  feel  it  is  impossible  to  surpass 
tiiem.  This,  at  teast,  is  one  of  the  qualities  whidi  have 
made  In  Memoriam  famous.  It  is  not  merely  a  noble 
threnody  upon  a  dead  Englishman,  but  it  is  one  of  the 
most  distinctively  English  poems  in  the  language,  ex- 
pressing universal  sentiments  indeed,  but  with  a  perpetual 
reference  to  national  scenery,  customs,  and  life. 

One  other  point  should  not  be  overlooked  in  estimating 
such  a  poem  as  In  Memoriam.  To  its  many  other  great 
qualities,  it  adds  one  of  the  rarest  of  aU—it  Is  tiie  moat 
perfect  expression  we  have  of  the  spirit  (rf  the  age.  It  is 
a  poem  of  the  century ;  indeed,  we  may  say,  the  poem  of 
the  century.  It  sums  up  as  no  other  work  of  our  time 
Ins  done  the  diarscteristic  intellectual  and  religious  move- 
ments of  the  Victorian  epodi.  Nowhere  has  Tennyson 
borrowed  so  largdy  from  modem  science  as  hen.  The 
well-known  lines, 

Break  thou  deep  raae  of  cMUing  tern 
That  grief  hath  ihaken  into  fnut, 

•Atd  an  exodlent  specimen  of  these  obligations;  the 
flftetqiher  is  very  bea^fel,  bat  it  camot  be  understood 

without  a  knowledge  of  elementary  chemistry.  At  first 
this  was  esteemed  a  startling  innovation,  and  was  used 
against  him  as  a  reproach,  but  if  the  great  poet  is  he  who 
concenti^ates  in  his  poetry  tiie  spiritof  his  time,  TeneyMm 
was  bound  to  take  account  of  the  scientific  tenden^, 
which  is  one  of  the  most  marked  features  of  the  century. 
Alt  he  has  done  more  than  this.  He  has  stated  not 
wuttif  scicntMc  Mfiimmti  and  fMi^  bat  also  the  id%« 


TENNYSON'S  IN  MEMOBIAM  m 

doubts,  the  perplexities,  the  philosophic  difficultie.  of 
fte  dajj^with  equal  skiU  and  force.  He  has  perceived 
th.  iiUdl^tud  ..d  mligiau,  drift  of  hi,  age  with^^ 
accuracy.  He  himself  has  passed  thiSU  Hi 
stag«  of  doubtful  iUumination.  of  daT^misgivhTof 
agonizing  search  for  light,  and  lasUy  of  clear  and  even 

triumphant fiOth.   Ukeaaotlier nrx^ nr 
u»»uri^!I/Z  poet  of  our  Umc,  Arthur 

Hugh  Clough,  Tenaywm  hat  known  wliat  it 

To  finger  idly  Mote  eM  Goniian  knot. 
Uukilled  to  sunder  and  too  weak  to  cleave. 
And  with  much  toil  attain  to  half4telieve. 

But  he  has  done  what  Clough  could  not  do,  he  has  cut  the 
ewdian  knot,  and  found  «  a  surer  faith  his  own."  The 
process  by  which  he  ha.  attained  this  victory  we  shaUsee 
m  the  analysis  of /»  ^,«^V,«,.   In  the  meantinw.  it  H 

^^•^'^  *Ws  poem  has 
«««  on  the  minds  of  men  must  be  attributed  not  only  to 
'ts  hteraiy  genius,  hut  to  its  prophetic  qualities.  Not 

till  •*  °"f"'^'"  """^"^  •«*  thoroughly 

^gj«h  in  colour,  but  it  is  also  an  interpretation  of  the 
deep«t  «hpous  y^rnings  and  phUosophic  problems  of 

Z2TTt  "u*^  ^  ^  indispeLble  com- 

pamon  of  aU  who  share,  and  seek  to  und«t«rf.or  to 
direct,  the  inteUectual  Ufe  of  the  centuoT^^ 

sent*^«*^^-^°"'i!l"^  i° 
Bnt  %!l  .^"T^  «««»e»t  or  eludda^n. 

But  there  «  another  sense  in  which  elucidation  is  needed 
«dainnot  but  Be  useful.  Because  the ^J^^.' 

^n!  o  •  f  °'  "^^"^y  *  «^  P°«n  «  itself,  but 
SrmenTT ^  «°8ether  by  a  common 
sentiment.  It  is  not  always  easy  to  perceive  tiie  thi«Ml  oT 
thought  that  binds  each  to  enA  tk,  ^ 


too  THE  MAKXB8  OF  Kimm  FOETBY 


thought  and  theme  are  always  subtle,  and  often  sudden. 
The  various  suggMUoiis  of  loss  crowd  thickly  on  the 

mind  of  the  poet,  and  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  perceive 
the  link  which  connects  them  into  an  organic  whole.  It 
may  be  well,  therefore,  to  attempt,  not  an  elaborate  anal- 
ysis, for  that  has  been  ably  done  by  others,  but  a  sort 
of  indicatory  comment  whereby  wt  may  percdw  tfM 
course  and  current  of  the  poem. 

The  opening  poem  of  the  series  is  an  after-thought, 
and  sums  up  much  that  is  said  hereafter  in  delafl.  Itis a 
final  confession  of  religious  faith, "  Believing  where  we 
cannot  prove,"  in  which  Tennyson  craves  forgiveness  for 
'•tiie  wiU  and  waaderii^  cries  "  of  the  poem,  which  he 
terns  "confuskms  <tf  a  wasted  yon^"  The  poem 
proper  then  begins.  From  i.  to  v.  we  have  a  statement  of 
tilOie  common  states  of  mind  which  attend  all  great 
bereavements  There  is  a  sacredness  in  loss  (v.)  which 
almost  makes  it  a  sacrilege  to  embaha  the  aefreir  of  tlM 
heart  in  words,  and  yet  there  is  a  .use  in  measured  lan- 
guage, for  at  least  the  labour  of  literary  production  numbs 
tiie  pain.  Then  foUows  (vi.)  a  beautiful  and  pathetic 
vision  of  whitf  loss  means  to  odwis  tieside  Undf. 
Such  a  sorrow  as  his  is  not  peculiar :  at  the  moment  iriifle 
the  father  pledges  his  gallant  son,  he  is  shot  upon  tiie 
betde-fidd,  and  while  the  mother  prays  for  her  saflor-laiL 
Us 

Hsavy  ilisMsd  hsmmrt-riaeai 
Drops  ia  Us  vatt  sad  waadeifav  grava. 

Memofy  wakens  (vu.-viiL),  and  then  Faacy  (faL-x.); 

the  one  recalling  ended  joys  of  fellowship,  the  other 
picturing  the  ship  that  bears  homeward  the  dead  body  of 
his  friend ;  and  fiucy  suggests  that  it  at  least  is  something 


TENNYSON'S  IN  MEMORIAM  m 
to^spawd  an  ociM  burial,  aadteiiMp  ill  BiglMlMrtiu 


Th»vi0i««r  MtnUvtliai.  paHL) 
Nature  is  calm  (xi.).  but  if  the  poet  any  calm  It  la  • 
calm  despair.  Yet  while  he  pictures  the  prooeHca  of 
death,  he  marks  it  as  curious  that  it  is  almost  impossible 

!°  If  again  they  strudc  hand 

in  hand,  he  would  not  feel  it  stnwge  (ydr\  fer  death 
seems  unimaginable.  Then  again  the  light  fades,  and  he 
pictures  the  final  obsequie  and  place  of  rest  (xixA  Pain 

may  be  meant  to  piod«»  in  him  the  firmer  mind  (xviii.). 
I'erhaps  some  wiU  say  that  this  brooding  over  grief  iiw». 
man^the  pastime  of  the  egotist,  the  vain  tortiae  » 
Borbid  mind;  to  which  he  can  only  lenlr  therkMiw 
aiMMrUnaerUiMead. 


I  do  but  ifaif  bscaase  I 

And  pipe  but  as  the  Unoels  (^  ^  x 

A^in  he  recalls  lost  days,  and  how  on  the  .V 

andperledtken(nil>.  Let  those  i«xdc  who  will.  He 
nasnoenvyof  those  more  callous  of  heart  thM  he.  who 
have  never  known  the  joy  of  a  perfect  love.  and.  there- 
lore,  amwt  understand  what  its  loss  may  mean.  Amwi's 
cipacityof  afoiiy  is  hii  capacity  of  laptufc: 
I  hold  it  inw,  vhMs'er  btftO, 
I  fcelit.  when  I  sorrow  most ; 
•  Tb  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
'nuavrwMiWMlmialalL  (ssvM.) 

The  lime  ofh^ipy  fiuB%  gifiieriavi  A«wa  aaMv  aa< 

Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hiU 
Answer  each  other  hi 


269  THE  MAKSBS  OF  BNOLISB  POBIBY 


To  Iiim  it  it  a  sad  tiae  of  forced  mirtli  aad  empty  joy. 
But  there  is  somelitiag  ia  tfat  voy  Mnm  tiiat  tuggMti 
n^>ler  thotq^: 

Our  voices  took  a  holier  nmge ; 

Once  mote  we  sanf :  "  They  do  not  die 

Nor  loie  their  nMMtal  sympathy. 
Nor  chuge  to  in.althe«fiitlw]r  change."  (an.) 

That,  at  least,  is  die  prmntse  of  fiutii,  and  witii  a  ciy  to 

the  Divine  Father,  who  lit "  the  light  that  shone  when 
Hope  was  bom,"  the  fint  great  halting-place  in  the  poem 
IS  reached. 

In  tile  next  section  of  the  poem  (xxxi.)  a  new  line  <rf 
thought  begins  with  the  touching  picture  of  Lazarus  re- 
deemed  from  the  grave's  dishonours,  and  seated  once 
more  among  the  familiar  faces  of  Bethany.  During 
tiiose  four  days  of  sojourn  in  the  realm  of  death,  did 
Lazarus  yearn  for  human  love,  or  miss  it?  Did  he  retain 
a  conscious  identity,  and  know  where  and  what  he  was  ? 
If  he  had  willed,  surely  he  could  have  solved  all  the 
deep  mystery  of  deatii  for  us.  But  if  sudi  questions 
were  proposed  to  him  "  there  lives  no  record  of  reply," 
or,  if  he  answered  them,  "  something  sealed  the  lips  of 
that  evangelist,"  and  the  world  will  never  know  the  se- 
crets of  tile  prfaon-hotae.  At  tiib  point  Tennyson 
begins  to  state  and  combat  the  doubts  that  perplex  him. 
Yet  he  half  hesitates  to  do  so.  Simple  faith  is  so  beau- 
tiful and  rare,  that  he  may  well  ask  himself  what  right  he 
has  to  disturb  its  sere^  with  his  uneasy  questionings. 
Let  any  who,  after  toil  and  storm,  think  that  they  have 
readied  a  higher  freedom  of  truth,  be  careful  how  they 
dishttb  tile  iaith  of  simple  souls,  who  have  nothing  but 
tlMir  fcitii  to  sustain  tiiea,  and  wluM  **  hiadi  are  quteinr 


TENHTBOira  IN  MEMOBIAM  S68 


unto  good  "  than  ours  (xxxii.).  Yet  we  cannot  help  mIc- 
tog:  "baumiimiiortd?''  Ifhe  is  not,  then 

Earth  is  darkncw  at  Iht  core. 
And  dusl  and  ashes  all  that  is. 

The  thought  of  God  is  lost,  and  the  best  ftfee  wot  to 
drop 

IiMd4biB8MM  fai  dM  j«m 
Of  TacaatdafkaeMuidtocMae.  (aadv.) 

In  the  hour  of  such  awful  questionings  die  hcvt  imt»ct* 
ively  turns  to  Christ,  who  wrought 

Wth  haman  hands  the  creed  of  areedi* 
la  leveSneH  of  perfect  deeds 
More  ■tnmfduui  an  poetic  thoai^.  ^nvL) 

Doubt  and  hope  now  alternate  like  shadow  and  light  in 
the  poet's  mind.  When  he  sees  the  sun  sink  on  the  wide 
moor,  a  spectral  doubt  makes  him  cold  with  the  sugges- 
tion that  so  his  friend's  life  has  sunk  out  of  sight,  and  he 
will  see  his  "  mate  no  more  "  (xli.).  Perhaps  his  friend 
is  as  the  maiden  who  has  entered  on  the  new  toils  of 
wedded  d^,  and  is  cmttent  to  finsake  the  home  of 
diiMhood;  yet  even  she  returns  sometimes  to 

Bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast. 

Till  even  those  who  mined  her  most 
ShaB  cent  aevtfcfa^  as  dearest  (xL) 
"  How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead?"  (xUv.)  May 
not  death  be  in  itself  a  new  birth,  the  entrance  iqwa 
fuller  Ufe  ?  (xlv.)  Only  it  were  hard  to  accept  the  sug- 
gestion literally,  for  that  would  mean  forgetfuhiess  of 
that  which  (Mreceded  tiie  entruice  oa  eternal  Ub.  "lu 
that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb  "  will  not  '<  Oie  eternal 
landscape  of  the  past "  be  clear  "  from  marge  to  marge  "  ? 
(xlvi.)  Witb  those  who  speak  of  death  as  re-absoiptioa 


M4  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


into  the  univeisal  soul  he  has  no  sympathy.   Itm**  faith 

as  vague  as  all  unsweet";  it  means  destruction  of  ideo- 
tity,  and  his  hope  about  his  dead  friend  is  that  he 

Shall  know  him  when  we  meet. 
And  «c  dwU  A  ia  endkst  turn, 
E^iejrinfeKh  the         good.  (M) 

With  the  glow  of  that  thought  burning  in  him  he  calb 
upon  the  dead  ever  to  be  near  him— when  the  light  is 
low,  when  the  heart  is  sick,  when  the  pangs  of  pain  con- 
quer trust,  when  the  foOy  and  emptineH  of  human  life 
appal  him,  and,  finally,  when  he  ftdes  away  on  tbtt  km 
dark,  verge  of  hfe  which  is 

The  twilight  of  eternal  dajr.  (L) 

Yet  even  this  wish  he  is  keen  to  question  a  moment 
later;  do  we  really  desire  our  dead  to  be  near  us  in  spirit, 
and  is  tiiere  no  baseness  we  would  hide  from  their  purged 
and  piercing  vision  ?(li.)  In  fact,  his  aoul  has  beoone  to 
sick  with  sorrow,  that  he  now  only  suggests  hopes  to 
himself  that  he  may  fight  against  them.  He  philoso- 
phizes  on  his  own  erron  of  conduct,  but  rebukes  his  con- 
clusions with  the  fear  that  he  may  push  Fl^oaepliy  be- 
yond her  mark,  and  make  her  "  Procuress  to  the  Lords 
of  Hell!  (liv.)  Yet  in  the  moment  of  the  uttermost 
daricneai,  fiill  of  distemper  and  despair,  he  breaks  forth 
iatooiieof  the  noblest  oonfeaiions  offiUth, 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet. 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed. 
Or  cast  a*  rubbish  to  the  void. 

When  God  katfaaude  the  pOecoaqriMi.  (Bv.) 

It  is  fax .  that  Nature  teaches  no  tudi  doetriae;  the  k 
cardcM  of  the  sin^  type,  and  criea, 


T&ajXYBOlTS  IN  MEMORIAM 


A  tbooMutd  types  are  gone ; 
IemfcrMikN|^«|.lHllfo.  <lr.^) 

Yet  wiU  he  stretch  lame  hands  of  fidtfa,  and  -  i^nrty  trust 
the  larger  hope."  Nay,  it  seems  a  sin  against  the  dead 
to  doubt  that  it  is  forever  and  forever  weU  with  them 
(hffi.).  The  lost  Aftlnir  is  iaa**  second  state  sublime"; 
and  he  has  carried  human  love  with  him  there.  Will  he 
still  love  his  friend  on  earth  ?  (bci.)  Will  he  not  stiU  love 
the  earth  and  earthly  ways?  It  is  a  question  Emily 
Bronte  answered  ta  her  diJing  picture  of  a  spirit  in 
heaven  sighing  unceasingly  for  the  purple  moon  At 
loved  below,  until  the  angels  in  anger  cast  her  out,  ana 
she  wakes,  sobbing  for  joy,  on  the  wild  heather,  with  a 
skylark  stnging  over  her.  Tennyson  pictuies  the  great 
statesman  who  still  yearns  for  the  village-green  of  diilcl- 
hood,  and  consoles  himself  that  Love  cannot  be  ktt: 

aace  w«  dnnved  the  MM  of  fiitads 

And  tiiine  effect  so  Kves  in  me. 
A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee. 
And  move  thee  on  to  nobkr  detds.  (lxir.«v.) 

He  dreamed  there  would  be  Spring  no  mote,  but  now  ht 
pesoema  th^  his  life  begins  to  quicken  again  (box). 
So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do. 

is  his  reflection  on  tlie  pnasature  aaltat     Ui  Mm§$ 

life,  but  it  also  marks  an  awakening  of  purpose  in  hii 
upon  the  verge  of  another  Christinas, 
the  poem  aat«s  to  pause  with  the  penonal  reflections  of 
the  seventy-seventh  saetiott,  «i  the  possibility  that  what 
he  has  written  of  his  friend  may  never  find  readers,  nor 
touch  any  heart  out  his  own.  There  is  a  virihty  and 
spirit  hi  ttii  section  which  marks  the  movement  ot  a 


9M  THE  MASraS  OF  ENCOJBH  POETRY 


healthier  mind.  That  he  can  bcfia  to  diink  abovt  the 

puUication  of  his  own  verses  is  significant  of  the  rekin- 
H^atg  of  human  ambition  in  him,  and  is  the  token  that 
tte  lethargy  of  grief  is  broken.  He  has  not  recovered 
his  strength  yet;  but  Um  aim  ciAt  diteue  is  over. 

From  this  point  the  poem  moves  in  a  clear  and  less 
grief-laden  atmosphere;  the  assurance  of  faith  becomes 
Stronger,  and  a  note  of  triumph  breathes  in  the  music, 
gjmdBaJfy  lw^[tomi^  and  deepening  to  its  maje^ 
close.  He  can  bear  now  to  pass  in  review  the  lost 
possibilities  of  earthly  felicity  which  were  in  his  friend 
(bcxxiv.),  because  he  has  learned  to  believe  that  a  diviner 
felicity  is  his.  He  hMt  sacred  "comnme  wHh  tiw 
dead,"  and  aiks 

How  is  it?  Canst  t^ou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  witii  pain  ?  (Ixnv.) 

He  gives  us  a  portrait  of  his  friend ;  he  pictures  him 
eager  in  debate,  a  master-bowman  cleaving  the  centre 
of  the  profouadert  thought,  quidc  and  impassioned  in 

And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo ;  (bnsvl.) 

that  is,  the  deep  furrow  between  the  eyebrows,*  which 
was  indicative  of  individuality  in  the  great  Italian  artist 
He  recollects  how  he  left  "  the  dusty  purlieus  (tf  the  law," 
and  joined  in  simple  rural  sports  with  hoyiA  gfee 
(bocxix.);  and  how  they  talked  toge^,  ami  ia  pro- 
longed and  eager  converse 


•  This  is  a  dispatad  point  According  to  Dr.  Catty  the  reference  is  the 
Ursightasss  aad  pwinaaca  of  Haliam's  foreliead,  ia  which  it  nsembkd 


TKsixreoim    memoriam  m 

WKnwed  the  books  to  love  or  hate. 
Or  touched  the  changes  of  Om  mm. 
Or  threaded  some  Socntic  dieam. 

This  portraiture  of  Arthur  Hallam  is  completed  later  on. 
in  the  itrfldng  stanza  of  the  hundred  and  eleventh 
Mctioa,  idtea  Tenagnm  txeUiam, 


And  thus  be  bore  without  i  

The  grand  old  name  of  gentlemaa, 
Detumd  by  every  charlatan. 
And  soOed  wkh  all^BoUe  we. 
Again  he  implores  his  presence,  and  he  wiU  have  no 
fear;  for  whereas  he  once  thought  of  him  as  lost  for- 
ever, now  he  feels  his  presence,  "  Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost 
to  Ghost,"  and  actuaUy  believes  that  ia  dream  or  vision 
his  friend  does  vttft  him  

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line. 

The  dead  man  touched  me  fnm  the  rut. 

And  aUttenceb  seemed  at  hut 
The  living  eevl  was  IbAed  en  aiM.  (kL-v.) 

It  is  mird  breathing  on  mind  from  the  past ;  he  feds  tluil 
whatever  is  lost,  tkat  survives,  and  is  with  him  alway. 
«  is  true  that  his  friend  has  doubted,  but  it  was  honest 

There  lives  more  fiddi  la  hoaeat  4^1^, 

Believe  m^thttiahdrdMcieedi.  (anL) 

He  draws  a  lovely  picture  of  a  wife  who  lives  wftli  a 
husband  whose  intellectual  life  is  beyond  her  apprehen- 
sion, but  who  Can  say  at  least,  as  he  has  learned  to  say, 
"  I  cannot  understand ;  I  low"  (wvIL).  It  is only 
outcome  from  bewilderment;  he  wiU  foUow  aoC  the 
reason  but  the  heart;  a  truth  stated  with  Mt 
fcrat  aad  Mhim  in  section  cxxiv. : 


368  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGUBB  FOSIBT 


If  e'er  when  fidth  had  fallen  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice,  <•  Believt  no  mon" 
A  warmth  wbhia      hnmat  woM  mdt 

The  freezing  reason's  colder  part. 

And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 
Stood  vp,  tad  twntni,  "  I  have  Ut" 

He  recalls  how  he  and  his  friend  traveUed  together  in 
unforgotten  summer  days,  and  that  leads  to  a  series  of 
those  beautiful  cabinet  pictures  of  scenery  which  lead 
so  great  a  charm  to  the  poem  (xcviii.<i.).   He  relates 
how  he  has  dreamed,  and  saw  in  dreams  the  gloiy  of  his 
friend;  how  -  thrice  as  hrge  as  man  he  beat  to  greet 
us  "—a  symbol  of  the  larger  manhood  which  he  has  in- 
herited; and  how  he  stood  upon  the  deck  of  some  great 
iWp  with  shining  sides,  that  sailed  o'er  doods  of  »  grander 
space"  than  any  earthly— a  pathetic  leferenoe  to  the 
ship  that  bore  his  dead  body  home  to  England,  and 
again  a  symbol  of  that  voyage  of  Ufe  on  which  his  spirit 
now  passes  through  an  ever-broadening  gloiy  (dii.). 
Thea  again  the  Christmas  conies :  charged  stifl  with  too 
great  memories  of  sorrow  to  aUow  the  dance  and  wassail- 
song,  but  yet  bringing  a  genial  change  in  him.  for  he  has 
abandoned  wayward  grief,  and  "  broke  the  bond  of  dying 
use"  (cv.).   This  Christmas  is  speat  in straager? 
land,"  away  from  home,  and  the  bells  are  not  the  bells  he 
knows.   The  Christmas  bells  peal  •«  folded  in  the  mist " 
as  before:  but  when  the  New  Year  is  near  its  dawning 
there  is  a  new  music  ra  the  beBs,  a  hope  aad  triumph  hi 
their  chime,  which  sets  his  heart  vibrating  with  a  aew 
and  wholesome  vigour,  aad  he  breaks  out  iato  that  mea- 
oiable  apostrophe: 


TENNYSONTS  IN  MEMOBUM  m 

IUkk  ovt.  wild  belk,  to  the  wOd  diy. 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die.  (cri) 

The  happy  clangour  of  the  New  Year  bells  celebtata 
hii  find  eiiMacip«tion  fironrthe  perplexities  of  doubt,  his 
final  recovery  of  healthful  life,  the  — irtmriliM  ef  Irii 
sorrow,  the  triumph  of  his  faith.  It  is  the  anntvmaiy 
of  Arthur  Hallam's  birth,  the  bitter  February  weather 
which  "  admits  not '  *   .  .  . ' 


 ^  to  deefc  iIk  bMouet.' 

yettbedayshallbeke!it«itfetetal  * 


With  books  and  munc  ;  surely  «• 
Will  drink  to  him,  whate'er  he  b*. 
Aai  ihg  tte  tnwm  h»  Imwai  to  I— r.  (ctiL) 
He  has  soared  into  the  mystic  ha^t^  of 
speculation,  only  to  find  his  •tMni  piMMie 
hymns     henceforth,  he  says, 

I  will  not  shut  me  friMn  oqr  kind ; 

And  lest  I  itite  into  Mm. 

I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Mor  iMd  with  sig^  a  passing  wind.  (cnL) 
Sdenee,  which  teaches  him  how  the  world  and  hoMA 
life  have  grown  out  of  the  fieice  dioda  of  ■irii 
discipline,  the  cleansing  fire  and  cyclic  storm,  may  also 
teach  him  that  sorrow  is  to  man  a  sacred  discipline,  and 
flwt  fttt,  ami  weeping,  and  the  shocks  of  doom,  do  b^ 
batter  him  to  shape  and  use  (cxviii.).   Hbtiuai  "■^'-mtt 
can  tell  us  much,  but  not  all;  we  are  not  magnetic 
mockeries,"  nor  «  cunning  casts  in  clay."  There  is  a 
"ptritnd  fldenee  aba  whkdi  tiie  wise  man  seeks  to  learn, 
and  which  unfolds  a  truer  map  of  the  mytterio«a  ntme 
of  man  (cxx.).   It  is  the  reality  of  spiritual  existence 
that  his  sorrow  has  revealed  to  him.  Love  is  imnortd- 


870  THE  MAKKB8  OF  SNCOOBB  K»IBT 
ity,  and  through  his  love  he  hm  afawd^  wtarad  oa 

eternal  life.   The  knowledge  that  his  lost  friend  is  reaUy 
alive  for  evermore ;  that  death  for  him  has  been  simply 
cmaadprtion  and  eaftmneUiement;  that  aU  which  he 
loved  m  him,  not  merely  survives,  but  is  perfeefesd  in  ex- 
cellence, freed  from  all  human  blemish  or  limitation,- 
this  fills  him  with  an  ahnost  ecstaUc  joy.   In  the  early 
morning,  whea  the  dty  is  asleep,  he  again  stands  before 
those  dark  doors  in  Wimpole  Street,  but  it  ip  no  longer 
with  agonized  upbraidings  of  fate.    The  calmness  and 
hope  of  morning  are  with  him,  as  they  were  with  that 
foriora  woman  who  long  since  sought  her  Master,  when 
It  was  yet  early,  in  an  Eastern  garden,  and  found  aol  a 
corpse  within  the  tomb,  but  a  shining  Figure  waOdag  in 
the  dewy  freshness  of  the  day,  and  he  says : 

And  in  my  thoiights  with  scaice  a  sigh 
HakethtpRsmeorthyluakL  (cxix.) 


It  is  mote  than  resignatioa,  it  is  more  than  hope.  It  is 
the  voice  of  living  certainty,  of  an  entire  aad  undivided 
triumph,  which  lifts  itself  above  the  daik  '^'"'brm  of 

the  past,  and  sings. 

Far  off  thou  ait.  bat  ever  nigli, 
I  have  Ace  ttin  and  I  rejoice ; 
I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  vtiett 
1  ihaU  not  lose  thee  the'  I  die.  (cxxx.) 
The  long  anguish  has  done  its  work  in  the  purification 
of  the  soul  and  the  streagtiieaing  of  the  fV-Ith ;  aU  the 
bitter  sounds  of  wailing  and  distress  die  away,  and  it  is 
with  a  perfect  HaUelujah  Chorus  of  glory  in  the  highcM, 
and  peace  upon  earth,  that  the  poem  ends. 

There  is,  however,  annexed  to  it  one  otfier  lectioa, 
and  not  the  least  lovdy;  the  epiflialamioa  on  Ws  sirtart 


TEKKYBOm  a  MEMORIAM  an 

marria^  We  learn  thrt  this  marriage  took  place  "  some 
thrke  tbree  ymn- aftor  Arthtir  Hallam'i  death,  but 
whether  the  bride  was  the  sister  Hallam  hoped  to  torn 
we  have  no  means  of  knowing.   This  epithalamion  ii 
one  of  thoae  happy  after-touches  in  which  Tennyson  dis- 
plays so  perfeettjr  Us  artirtie  tUO.  It  isauggestiveof 
how  life  goes  on,  and  must  go  on,  in  spite  of  tiie  gan 
made  in  our  ranks  by  death ;  and  « the  dash  and  clang - 
of  the  wedding  bells,  carried  on  the  warm  breeze  is 
a  noble  contrast  to  tfiat  moumAil  pealing  of  bdls 
through  the  mist  which  is  heard  so  often  in  the  earlier 
stages  of  the  poem.   The  winter  is  over  and  gone,  the 
time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the 
turtle  is  heard  in  the  Umd.  And  now.  whether  life  bring 
joy  or  sorrow,  funeral  chimes  or  marriage  bells,  the  ] 
has  an  all-sustaining  and  purifying  faith  in  Qftd- 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  lovcs^ 

One  God,  one  law,  one  eltmea^ 

And  one  far-off  diviat  eveai^ 
To  which     whote  cmttoa  1 


That "  one  far-off  divine  event "  can  be  no  odier  tluui  the 
perfecting  of  love  in  human  life,  the  complete  recognition 
by  every  living  soul  of  the  love  of  God,  and  the  final 
vindkatton  of  that  perfect  Divine  love  in  aU  its  varied 
dealings  with  men,  in  thing!  past,  in  things  present,  and 
in  things  that  are  to  come.    This  is  the  vaguely  sketched 
yet  noble  vision,  which  crowns  with  spiritual  glory  the 
completion  of  Ms  thought  and  hUMur.   He  has  led  us 
through  the  darkest  vaUeys  of  ApoByon.  bat  we  teM:h 
with  him  the  Beulah  land  at  last.   We  hear  the  trumpets 
pealing  on  the  other  side,  and  behoM  it  is  mominef 
Fan-  and  aweet  the  light  shines,  and  heavenly  voices  tdl 


979  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POSXEY 


ui  we  shaU  walk  in  night  no  more.  It  is  morning;  the 
morning  of  a  deep  and  dear-eyed  foith ;  and  doubt  a  id 
•onwr,  fear  and  pain,  are  past  fmever.  They  are  not 
forgotten  indeed ;  but  we  see  tiMm  now  onfy  m  diMaat 
clouds  touched  with  glories  of  celestial  colour,  lying  fai 
and  faint  behind  us  on  the  radiant  horizon,  transfigured 
•ad  tfaatformed  by  the  alchemy  of  God.  The  phantoms 
of  the  night  are  slain,  the  anguish  of  tiw  n^ht  k  mded ; 
the  true  light  shineth  with  healing  in  its  wings,  and  the* 
soul  rejoices.   It  may  well  rejoice  with  joy  infr»«iTifr|f 

Out  of  the  shadow  of  night 
The  world  rolls  into  light. 
It  is  daybraak  cvtrprkem. 

We  may  here  conclude  our  study  of  Tennyson.  For- 
tunate beyond  ahnost  any  poet  in  his  life,  he  was  equaUy 
fortunate  in  his  death.  The  finest  elements  of  his  power 
remained  with  him  to  the  last;  his  intellectual  lirce  was 
not  abated,  nor  his  magic  wand  broken.  His  eightieth 
birthday  brought  him  the  homage  of  the  entire  inteOee- 
tual  world,  and  found  him  writing  the  noblest,  and  what 
is  probably  destined  to  be  the  moat  femous,  of  att  hii 
hymm  of  faitii. 

Sunset  and  evening  star. 

And  one  clear  call  for  me, 
And  may  there  be  no  moanh^  of  dtt  bar 

When  I  imt  (Nit  to  sea. 

But  such  a  tide,  as  moving  seems  Siltip, 

Too  full  for  sound  or  foam. 
When  that  which  drew  ham  oat  the  beaadleM  dsep 

Turns  again  home. 


rortho'firemoatovl 
I  MM  l»  tM  mjr  FUoi  fiMc  to  fiMt 


And  tiien  came  that  night  of  _ 
he  lay  majestic  in  the  final  weakness ;  l^hS'shUr 

rS^nX!  Cymbeline  beside  him. 

w^roiilfag      ttntaHnni  with  complete  tnmquiUity  and 
faith,  and  hkc  his  own  Arthur,  eaooinigcd  wtth  th« 
vision  of  a  land  of  larger  life  beyond  the  sea.  Never 
w  a  poet's  exit  from  life  contrived  with  a  finer  dignity 
■ad  the  pictare  of  tliat  majestic  deatii-bed  wiU  remain 

T^'  ^1°"*  memorlei  of  Btenitare. 

n  hat  Tennyson's  final  position  in  the  hierarchy  of  the 

f^^J^y  ^ 't  is  premature  and  indeed  impossible  to 
decMle.  WeareyettoofuUy  uaderhis  immediate  influence 
for  our  discernment  to  be  just,  or  our  faOgmuA  to  be  wte; 
That  he  is  among  tiie  few  great  creative  poeti  of  hu- 
inanity,  no  one  wiU  assert ;  tiiat  he  is  nevertheless  a  poet 
of  great  and  vaiied  emeHence.  none  wiU  deny.  He  ha. 
been  compared  with  Milton,  and  hat  been  set  »  Wih 
above  Wordsworth,  that  one  of  his  critics*  has  ventuS 

JIk"^  'on  of  poets, 

"  they  wj,  begfa  Witt  Shdteapeare  and  Milton-andX 
shall  have  tiie  third  place  if  it  be  not  Tennyson?'*  But 

h»  MM  that  Wordsworth  is  poet  of  modem  England 
and  th^-olher  wrHen  hwe  to  aifcct  what  to  Wm  i. 
natural.    And  that  pregnant  laytng  fflumines  at  once 

!5tJ!5i!_**"'*'^°"'  ^y'"^  ^okc  the  seoet 

Of  Wordsworth's  supremacy  and  of  Tennyson's  defidency. 
Weannot  bnt  fed  tiiat  lie  heict  the  massive  easettf 


nfocow  RBOumoN  mr  chart 

(ANSI  and  HO  TEST  CHART  fte.  2) 


A 


/1PPLIED  IM^GE  Inc 

1653  Eost  Moin  Street 

Roclwiter.  N«<>  York      14609  US* 

(7ie)  4M  -  0300  -  PlwiM 

(71S)  288  -  S9B9  -  Toi 


m  THE  1CAKEB8  OF  ENGUira  FOETBT 


Wordswwdi  and  the  deep  interior  strength  of  Milton. 
If  we  still  hesitate  to  grant  him  equality  witli  the  fore> 
most  poets  of  the  older  centuries,  or  of  his  own,  it  is  for 
the  sound  reason  that  while  in  Tennyson  artistic  cultiu'e 
has  never  been  surpassed,  yet  the  original  poetic  impube 
is  weaker  in  him  than  in  either  Keats  or  Shelley,  Etente, 
Wordsworth,  or  Milton.  But  happily  it  is  not  necessary 
for  us  to  determine  the  rank,  before  we  can  discern  the 
genius,  of  our  masters ;  it  is  enough  for  us  to  receive 
with  thankfulness  and  admiration  the  writings  of  a  great 
poet,  who  for  sixty  years  fed  the  mind  of  England  with 
visions  of  truth  and  beauty,  and  who,  through  all  that 
lengtii  of  various  ytan,  has  never  ceased  to  be  a  soutee 
of  inspiration  and  delight  to  that  diffused  and  dominant 
race  who 

Speak  the  tongue  that  Shakespeare  vahe. 


XXV 

ROBERT  BROWNING 

Btrn  at  CambtrwtU,  London,  May  7, 1813.  Pauline  published, 
1832.  MarrUs  ESzsttth  Barrett,  September  12.  1846.  The 
Ring  and  the  Book  pubUshed  1868.  Asolando,  his  last  volume, 
1889.  '«  Vonite,  December  12,  i88fi.    BurUJ  i*  WeO' 

mbitur  MUj,  Ikttmier  jx,  i88g. 

THE  two  greatest  figures  in  the  world  of  modem 
poetry  are  Tennyson  and  Browning.   To  each 
was  accorded  old  age :  both  have  been  keenly 
alive  to  the  intellectual  and  social  movements  of  their 
time,  and  have  endeavoured  to  reflect  them.    Each  also 
has  been  an  observant  student  of  life,  as  aU  true  poets 
must  be,  and  each  has  constructed  a  huge  galleiy  of 
human  portraits,  representing  many  types,  and  arranged 
with  artistic  instinct  and  consummate  skill.    But  while 
Tennyson  has  proved  himself  the  greater  artist.  Browning 
has  proved  himself  the  greater  mind.   He  has  brought  to 
the  work  of  the  poet  a  keen  and  subtle  intellect,  a  pene- 
trating insight,  the  experience  of  a  citizen  of  the  world 
and  in  aU  things  the  original  force  of  a  powerful  individu- 
ality.  The  result  of  his  artistic  deficiency  is  that  he  has 
relatively  failed  to  obtain  popularity.    He  has  not  known 
how  to  deliver  his  message  to  the  popular  ear.  and  it  may 
be  doubted  if  he  has  ever  cared  to  tiy.   With  a  touch  of 
justifiable  scorn  he  has  declared  that  he  never  inteiided 
his  poetry  to  be  a  substitute  for  a  cigar  or  a  game  of 
dominoes  to  an  idle  man.   The  grace  and  muiic  of  T«»- 

S98 


976  THE  UAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  FOBTRT 


nyson's  veise  have  compelled  ddight,  but  in  Browning 
there  is  no  attenqit  at  verbal  music  It  is  wfth  him  aa 

unstudied,  perhaps  an  uncoveted,  art  When  the  Hebrew 
Psalmist  sought  to  express  the  consummate  unfon  of  the 
opposite  qualities  which  constitute  perfection  he  said, 
**  Strength  and  beauty  are  in  His  suctuary."  ^ji  Brown- 
ing we  have  the  strength,  in  Tennyson  the  beauty.  And 
the  result  cf  this  artistic  deficiency,  this  inability  to  clothe 
his  thot^hts  in  forms  of  grace,  is,  that  Browning  has 
failed  in  any  large  degree  to  charm  the  car  <^  1]>at  wide 
public  who  care  less  {  jr  the  thoi^t  that  is  uttered  Hun 
for  the  manner  of  its  utterance. 

It  is,  however,  necessary  to  remember  anoAer  fact 
about  Browning's  poetry,  viz.,  that  to  the  6rBt  minds  <^ 
the  ^e,  the  men  who  lead  and  govern  the  worid  ol 
thought.  Browning  has  been  and  is  a  potent  and  in> 
spiring  foKC  He  has  disseminated  ideas,  he  has  per- 
vaded the  literature  of  his  time  with  his  influence.  He 
has  found  an  audience,  few  but.  fitting,  and  to  them  has 
addressed  himself,  knowing  that  through  them  he  could 
most  effectually  readi  the  world  at  large.  The  test  of 
popularity  is  at  all  times  an  imperfect  test,  and  in 
Browning's  case  is  wholly  inadequate  and  unsatisfactory 
as  an  index  of  his  true  position  in  the  literature  of  his 
day.  The  influence  of  a  poet  is  often  out  of  all 
pmtion  to  his  popularity,  and  is  by  no  means  to  be 
measured  by  the  number  of  his  readers,  or  the  poverty 
or  copiousness  of  public  praise.  If  mere  popularity 
were  to  become  tiie  sdituy  test  of  influence,  we  should 
have  to  rank  Longfdlow  above  Dante,  and  Martin 
Tupper  above  Tennyson.  But  while  popularity  is  in  it- 
self a  testimony  to  the  possession  of  certain  serviceable 
qwUties,  «■  a  certain  happy  combination  of  qualities, 


ROBERT  BROWNING  S77 

it  fails  whoUy  as  a  just  measurement  of  the  real  for- 
mative force  which  a  writer  may  be  able  to  exercise 
upon  his  time,  and  stiU  mora  hopelessly  an  indica- 
tion of  the  position  such  a  writer  may  take  up  in  the 
unknown  judgments  of  posterity.  A  man  may  catch  the 
ear  of  the  pubUc,  and  win  its  empty  plaudits,  without 
touching  in  more  than  an  infinitesimal  degree  the  public 
conscience  or  the  public  thought 

The  deeper  and  diviner  waves  of  intellectual  hfe  in- 
deed have  more  often  than  not  owed  their  origin  to  men 
who  have  quarrelled  with  their  age.  and  received  from 
their  contemporaries  little  but  the  thorn-crown  of  deri- 
sion and  the  sponge  of  gaU  and  vinegar— men  wander- 
mg  in  the  bitterness  of  exile  like  Dante,  or  starving  in 
the  scholar's  garret  like  Spinoa.   Most  truly  great 
writers,  to  whom  has  been  committed  the  creative  genius 
which  opens  new  wells  of  thought  and  new  methods  of 
utterance,  have  had  need  to  steel  themselves  against  the 
indifference  of  their  time,  and  to  k«a  how  to  say 
"  N one  of  these  things  move  me."   They  have  appealed 
from  the  contemptuous  ignorance  of  their  contemporaries 
to  the  cerlaitt  piaises  of  posterity,  and  not  in  vain. 
Where  such  mea  find  readers  they  make  disciples,  and 
each  heart  upon  which  the  fire  of  their  genius  falls  be- 
comes consecrated  to  their  service.   Theirs  it  is  to  found 
a  rtcahx  apoMobte,  a  school  of  prophets  united  by  a 
cowimon  faith,  and  pledged  by  the  sactvdncss  of  aa 
intense  conviction  to  urge  on  the  teaching  of  the  new 
doctrine  and  the  new  name,  till  the  worid  acknowledges 
the  daim  and  gives  adhesion  to  the  master  whom  they 
love  and  reverence. 

Let  us  grant,  then,  that  we  have  in  Robert  Browning 
undoubtedly  a  great  poet,  but  also  a  relatively 


978  THE  MAKERS  OF  WSGIUBB.  FOETBT 


poet  With  the  ex^»tion  of  the  JUdt  from  Aisto  Gktnit 
the  fied  Piper    HamiUn,  and  the  tender  and  pathetic 

Evelyn  Hope,  few  or  none  of  his  poems  have  won  the  ear 
of  the  common  people.  Yet  he  has  produced  no  fewer 
than  tw«ity-four  volumes,  characterized  by  enormous 
erudition,  intense  passion  and  insight,  and  the  most 
astonishing  ingenuity  of  metrical  device.  No  writer  of 
our  time  has  manifestec  greater  fecundity  of  genius, 
versatility  of  style,  or  capacity  of  industry.  Few  writers 
have  ever  had  a  firmer  faith  in  themselves,  or  have 
trusted  more  fully  to  the  secure  awards  of  time.  Now 
that  the  poetry  of  Browning  has  become  a  cult,  his  less 
known  works  have  probably  found  readers;  but  at 
the  time  of  their  publication  few  but  the  reviewets 
had  the  courage  to  read  them.  There  is  a  story  told  of  a 
great  critic,  who  had  Sordello  sent  him  for  review  at  a  time 
when  he  was  in  weak  health  and  low  s{HritB.  After  an 
hour's  fruitless  effort,  he  flung  the  book  aside,  crying: 
"  My  brain  is  failing !  I  must  •  be  mad !  I  have  not 
understood  a  word."  His  wife  then  took  the  book  up, 
and  it  was  agreed  tiiat  upon  the  test  of  her  ability  to 
understand  it  the  question  of  he.  husband's  sanity  must 
turn.  She  at  length  flung  it  down,  saying:  "  My  dear, 
don't  be  alarmed.  You're  not  mad ;  but  the  man  who 
wrote  it  is !"  Many  persons  have  dosed  Sordello  wttii 
the  same  angry  comment,  and  there  are  isolated  passages 
in  Browning  more  difficult  than  anything  in  Sordello. 
How  is  it,  then,  that  the  man  whose  mastery  of  humour 
is  so  finely  dispbyed  in  tiie  IHed  Piper,  whose  patiioc 
and  power  of  narrative  have  such  splendid  attestations 
as  Evelyn  Hops  and  the  Ride  from  Aix,  who  can  write 
with  such  terseness,  simplicity,  and  vigour  as  these 
pocaas  display,  is,  neverthdess,  to  tfw  bulk  of  Ei^ 


BOBEBT  BBOWNIRQ 


lish  readen  a  ttoae.of  stuBifaliaf  aad  a  rode  of  of> 

fence  ? 

The  answer  to  this  question  is  not  difficult.  Let  it  at 
once  be  granted  that  Robert  Browning  can  write  as 
cleariy  any  English  poet  when  he  likes»  Ibr  he  has 
done  it.  Open  Browning  at  random,  and  it  will  be  hard 
if,  in  half-an-hour,  you  do  not  come  upon  a  score  of 
noble  thoughts,  admirably  expressed  in  clear  ringing 
English,  witii  Mate  attention  to  f^iase  and  perfect 
adherence  to  the  laws  of  construction.  Yet  it  must  be 
owned  that  in  the  same  half-hour  it  is  quite  possible  to 
alight  on  passages  where  the  nominative  has  lost  its  verb 
beyond  hope  of  recovery,  and  i^irases  seem  to  have  beat 
jerked  out  haphazard,  in  a  sort  of  volcanic  eruptioB  Ot 
thought  and  temper.  What  is  the  underlying  cause  of 
tiiese  defects  of  style  ? 

There  are  two  main  causes  The  &st  springs  from 
Browning's  theory  of  poetry.  Browning's  theory  of  poetry 
is  a  serious  one.  Like  aU  truly  great  artists,  he  has 
uniformly  recognized  the  dignity  and  responsibility  of  art 
Wth  hun  poetry  is  not  die  manu&cture  ofa  mdodiow 
jingle,  nor  the  elaboration  of  pretty  corceit ;  it  is  as  serious 
as  life,  and  is  to  be  aporoached  with  reverent  and  right- 
eous purpose.  It  is,  moreover,  the  noblest  of  all  intellec- 
tual labours  and  should  tiiaref<M«  minister  to  tiie  intdlect 
not  less  than  to  the  emotion.  Into  his  poetry  Browning 
has  put  his  subtlest  and  deepest  thought,  and  he  uniformly 
puts  a  higher  value  on  the  thought  than  the  method  or 
manner  :>f  its  expressioa.  In  /Mmt,  Us  earUest  poma, 
published  in  1832,  he  says,  with  a  true  foraCMt  of  Ut  owa 
powers  and  limitations, 

So  will  I  sing  on.  £ut  at  fiucies  come ; 
Sadify,  the  vsnt  b«ii«  at  the  oHod  it  fite 


S80  THE  ICAKSBS  OF  ENQLLSH  FOSIBT 


With  him  the  sense  is  more  than  the  iound,the  tabttfuic* 
is  more  than  the  form,  the  moral  significance  is  more  than 
tbe  ffaetorical  adornment  He  has  something  to  say, 
something  (^in&dte  moment  and  K^emn  import,  and  he 
is  comparatively  careless  of  ktw  he  says  it  He  is  the 
Cari^  of  poetry :  the  message  is  ever;  -^g,  the  verbal 
vesture  notiiing.  It  is  in  this  rcspcf  it  Browning's 
divergence  from  all  otiwr  modern  po^ui  is  greatest  He 
is  not  indiiTerent  to  the  art  and  music  of  words,  but  he 
habitually  treats  them  as  of  secondary  importance.  Nat- 
urally, the  growth  of  this  temper  has  led  Browning  into 
extravagances  cS  s^,  as  it  did  Cart)^; 
thought  is  hopelessly  embedded  in  insufficient  and  faulty 
phrases ;  and  therefore,  to  the  mass  of  readers,  who  do 
not  approach  poetry  with  the  patient  spirit  of  scientific 
researdi,  is  hopeles^  lost 

The  second  cause  of  the  occasional  obscurity  of  Brown- 
ing's poetry  is  found  in  the  condensation  of  his  style. 
When  Paractlsus  was  published  it  was  declared  unintd- 
ligiUe,  and  Jdm  Steriii^,  one  <^  die  acutest  crite  of  his 
day,  accused  it  of  "  verbosity."  This  saying  of  Sterling's 
was  reported  to  Browning  by  Miss  Caroline  Fox,  who 
went  on  to  ask : "  Doth  he  know  that  Wordsworth  will 
devote  a  fiortn^^  or  more  to  ^  (fiscoveiy  of  a  rii^ 
word  that  is  the  one  fit  for  his  sonnet  ?" 

This  criticism  filled  Browning  with  a  dread  of  diflfuse- 
ness,  and  henceforth  he  set  himself  never  to  use  two 
words  where  one  woukJ  do.  The  result  of  this  resolve  k 
that  often  he  does  not  use  words  enough  to  exfMress  his 
meaning.  He  uses  one  word,  and  expects  his  reader  to 
supply  twa  It  is  this  which  makes  SordtUo  the  puzzle  it 
is.  It  is  a  vast  web  of  words,  in  which  tiie  fihmeiits  are 
drofped»  oonfiaed,  tangled,  like  tiie  cmnvied  gmmmi 


BOBSirr  BBOWHIHO  tn 


of  a  spiders  web  has%  flatichtd  aad  am  thm  W 

ruined  by  the  touch  of  carelessness. 

There  are  beautiful  thoughts  and  passages  in  SordeUo^ 
but  tlwjr  savoor  so  much  of  bookishness,  and  demandso 
much  antiquarian  knowtodge  ia  tht  rander,  that  few  an 

likely  to  disinter  and  appreciate  them.  For  instanc^ 
take  this  passage  from  Book  the  Third :  Factttioui  Im- 
moun"  fidl  from  Sordello,  and  turn  him  pure 

At  tome  foiiKotten  vest 
Woven  of  painted  byuus.  liUdett, 
Tufiiqg  the  TyrriwM  whelk's  rmrl  ilisstsil  ^ 
Lefk  weter  when  a  triraoM  let  it  dip 
I'  the  lea  and  vexed  a  sttnq) :  w  the 

O' the  world  fonakes  Soiddlo  t  how  tbKt 
.dead  after  dowd. 


Now  what  is  the  picture  printed  hew?  Aaal^il^Md 
this  is  the  result :  An  eastern  satrap,  sailing  upoii  a  gd- 
ley  or  trii  2me.  wears  a  vest  of  byssus,  dyed  with  Tynan 
purple.  He  lets  It  fiUl  overboard,  and  as  he  looks  down 
throuf  ,  .  sea  sees  the  purple  dye  escaping  and 
cloud,  iter.  So  Soidelto  Is  dewaed  fitmi  the 

Stain  01       ATorld.   It  is  a  very  beautiful  illustration ;  but 
Its  beauty  fa  not  perceived  till  we  recoUect  that  purple  is 
taken  from  the  tuft  of  the  «  whelk's  peari-sheeted  lip  " 
and  that  a  garment  so  dyed,  if  cast  into  tlwMm  tfcwSa 
off  Its  colour  in  tremulous  clouds.    Does  any  one  see  the 
mwning  at  first  sight?   And  how  many  might  read  it 
and  never  seeany  memdiigin  itat  aU  ?  This  is  an  example 
of  Brownmg  in-his  worst  mood ;  and  we  cannot  wonder 
when  we  consider  it,  that  simple-minded  poets  like  . 
Ctarto  Mackay  caUed  him  the  «  High  Priest  of  the  Un- 
intelhgiMe";  or  that  Browaiaf  todetiei  have  had  to  be 
iB*«it«d  to  radoetldi  iWMidMt  fimcks  to  iaddl^. 


S8S  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETBY 


These,  then,  are  the  two  main  souroei  of  aU  thttii 
ofascun  in  Browniag's  writings.  The  very  (act  that  for 
natty  years  he  was  a  solitary  worker,  writing  almost  for 
his  own  pleasure,  naturally  confirmed  the  defects  of  his 
style.  The  obscurity  ii  never  <rf  tiie  tiiought ;  that,  in- 
deed, is  so  deer  and  Itnninous  to  him  that  he  seems  in- 
capable of  conceiving  it  as  confused  in  the  vision  of  his 
reader.  The  thought  is  clear  as  the  sun ;  but  the  atmos- 
phere of  words  through  which  we  perceive  it  is  ontrky, 
and  tile  body  of  the  thought  looms  through  it  dim  and 
strange.  And  so  Swinburne  has  spoken  with  equal 
felicity  and  truth  of  Browning's  faculty  of  "  decisive  and 
incisive  thought,"  and  has  said, «« He  is  tooMthiiq;  too 
mudi  the  reverse  of  obscure ;  he  is  too  brilliant  and  itdide 
for  the  ready  readers  of  a  ready  writer."  The  case  cannot 
be  better  put  than  in  the  words  of  one  of  his  most  earnest 
and  intelligent  students :  •«  He  has  never  ignwed  beauty, 
but  he  has  selected  it  in  tiie  desire  for  signifiouice.  He 
has  never  meant  to  be  rugged, -but  he  has  become  so  in 
the  striving  after  strength.  He  never  intended  to  be  ob- 
scure, but  he  has  become  so  from  die  condensation  of 
st^  which  was  tiie  excen  of  significance  and  strength." 
This  should  constantly  be  remembered,  if  we  are  to  ap- 
proach Browning's  poetry  with  the  intelligence  which  in- 
terprets, and  the  sympathy  which  appreciates. 

Were  Browning  not  a  great  poet  it  would  be  difficult 
to  forgive  him  such  defects  as  these.  We  should  be  in- 
clined to  dismiss  him  with  the  brief  aphorism  of  the 
Swedish  poet,  Tegner,  who  said,  **  The  dbscurdy  uttered 
ii  tlw  c^Mcurdy  thought."  But  Browning  is  one  of  the 
greatest  of  poets,  and  has  so  profoundly  afTected  the 
thought  of  his  time,  that  however  the  cdrdinary  reader 
may  be  rqpelled  by  the  grotesquenen  <rf  Us  iH^ikk 


BOBEBT  BROWNING 


S88 


eminently  worth  the  while  even  of  that  distinguished  in- 
dividual to  mdaavoyr  to  mdcnla^Ml  him.  Wt  freely 
grant  that  poets  should  not  need  interpreters ;  but  when 
there  is  something  of  infinite  moment  to  be  interpreted 
it  is  well  to  set  aside  fixed  rules  and  habitual  maxims. 
Genius  is  so  rare  a  gift  diat  we  must  take  it  on  its  own 
terms,  and  we  cannot  afford  to  quarrel  with  the  wntftfom 
it  may  impose  on  us.  It  speaks  its  own  language,  and  is 
indifferent  alike  to  the  reproach  or  desire  of  those  whom  it 
addresses.  The  only  question  for  as  is.  whether  it  is 
worth  our  while  to  endeavour  to  penetrate  the  meaning 
and  ascertain  the  teaching  of  any  writer  who,  through 
natural  limitations  or  willful  indifference,  renders  the  stut^ 
of  his  works  difficult  and  perplexiiig?  Intheaaeof 
B-owning  I  reply  that  no  more  remunerative  study  can 
be  found  than  in  the  careful  reading  of  his  works.  He 
embodies  some  of  the  most  curious  and  pervasive  tenden- 
cy of  nineteenth-centmy  Kterature,  and  in  subsequent 
chapters  I  shall  endeavour  to  show  what  Browiria^ 
teadiing  is,  and  to  estimate  ba  {««f«'mifit  in  Ktffrtm 


XXVI 


BROWNING'S  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LIFE 

ONE  of  the  most  interesting  facts  aoout  Robert 
Browning  is  that  he  has  no  touch  of  the  reduse 
•bout  him ;  he  ii  the  chad  of  dtto,  not  or  mH- 
tudes.  In  the  writings  of  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson, 
dissimilar  as  they  are  in  many  respects,  there  is  this  bond 
of  likeness — ^they  breathe  the  air  and  silence  of  seclusion. 
With  tlw  one  H  is  the  sflence  of  the  niottiitaiflt*  widi  tlw 
other  the  ordered  calm  of  English  rural  life.  All  that 
Wordsworth  has  written  is  steeped  in  the  very  spirit  of 
solitude,  and  the  mighty  silence  of  die  hills  has  lent  a 
BM^Mty  to  hit  coBceptiom— — M  stmo^ihere,  m  it  wera,^ 
dignified  simplicity.  In  Tennyson,  also,  one  is  always 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  Nature.  The  wind  that 
blows  across  his  page  is  full  of  the  dewy  freshness  of 
jpeen  bwos  and  mstlinif  trees,  ^  he  city,  vrfdi  ili  moO 
and  grime,  its  passionate  intensity  of  life  and  action,  is  far 
away.  He  sees  its  distant  lights  flaring  like  a  dusky 
dawn :  but  he  has  little  care  to  penetrate  its  mysteries. 
And  in  most  nwdem  poets  die  sanwremotenenfrom^ 
pMrimate  stress  of  life  is  felt.  What  is  true  of  Words- 
wordi  and  Tennyson  is  equally  true  of  Keats  and  Morris. 
The  fundamental  idea  in  each  seems  to  be  that  the  life  of 
the  recliae  is  alone  fiivourable  to  poetry,  and  &at  tiie  Ufe 
of  action  in  the  great  centres  of  chrilintion  b  fatal  to 
worlcs  of  imagination.  / 

To  this  teiqiar  drowning  furnishes  a  qdendid  exeqp- 
tioB.  Born  a  Londoner,  and  pnwid  to  own  hfansctf  n 


■wwmwm  noLOicmT  of  uw  ass 

^  grertest  city  upon  earth,  it  is  with  London. 
Koitace,  and  Venice  tbM  Ui  «mm  k  InptrMMbly  inter- 
woven: not  the  Lake  district  of  Wordsworth,  nor  the 
Geneva  of  Byron,  nor  the  Spezzia  of  Shelley  In  con- 
vmm  tnvd  he  ii  evidently  more  Cuniliar  with  the  bodc- 
rtilli  oTFlonsce  thai,  the  SMWMilitiidei  of  the  high 
Alps.   He  was  a  familiar  figure  in  society  for  many  years. 

j*""      c'O'^d :  he  seeks  and  loves  it.  The 
■eaae  of  wmbm  quidcena  his  imagination.   The  great 
drama  of  hunu  life  ateoffat  him.  Theglliiip««of  pure 
nature  he  gives  us  are  curiously  few.   He  can  describe  a 
lunar  rainbow :  but  he  saw  it  not  among  the  Alps,  but 
frooi  the  dun  greensward  of  a  London  common.  Prac- 
tically, he  has  little  to  say  about  Netwe  ••  aach.  Whea 
he  does  describe  any  bit  of  scenery  he  does  it  with  sdea- 
bfic  accuracy.   His  pictures  of  Italy  are  fuU  of  the  very 
■pWt  of  Italiui  aeeneiy.  and  have  an  almost  photoenphic 
exactitude.   But  they  are  the  mete  by-piay  of  hJTiSid! 
It  IS  Italian  life  which  fasdnates  him,  not  Italiaaaoeaerir 
1         fv«y where  that  moves  him  to  utterance,  and  in 
tte  crowd  of  men,  and  in  the  tangled  motives  of  men,  and 
the  constant  dramas  and  tragedies  bsed  by  the  pas^  ons 
and  instincts  of  the  human  heart,  Brownir    i  m  found  the 
J*^P^  which  his  genius  has  thriven.   In  this  respect 
Bmifaig  oocnpies  an  entirely  unique  position  among 
modern  poets.   He  concerns  himself  so  Kttle  with  the 
message  of  nature,  and  so  much  with  the  soul  of  man 
^  Ws  whole  poetiy  may  be  called  the  Poetiy  of  the 

Shifting  fancies  and  celestial  HglNs, 
With  aUits  grand  oichestral  silences 
T»  hs^  Ibt  pansss  of  die  rhythmic  sounds. 
^  Wosdswuclb's  wet  the  priestiy  tempetament,  and 


S86  THE  MA^"™'  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

Tennyson's  the  artistic  it  nay  be  said  that  Browning's 

was  something  broader  than  both :  the  nobly  human 
temperament,  which  cleaves  to  man,  and  seeks  to  under- 
stand his  hopes  and  fears,  and  judges  him  by  the  stand- 
ard of  a  catholic  charity.  In  this  respect  it  is  no  exag- 
geration to  say  that  Browning  more  nearly  resembles 
Shakjspeare  than  any  poet  of  the  last  three  hundred 
years ;  for  we  can  imagine  Shakespeare  as  having  moved 
among  men  with  the  same  genial  and  understanding 
l^mpathy,  and  as  interpreting  the  men  of  his  day  with  an 
insight  similar  to,  if  broader  and  more  profound  than, 
Browning's. 

The  immediate  result  of  this  temper  in  Browning  is 
that  no  poet  has  exhibited  such  variety,  and  this  variety 
springs  from  the  multiplicity  of  subjects  in  which  he  is 
interested.   His  poems  cover  dissertations  on  art  and 
music,  stories  of  adventure,  strangely  vivid  and  exact  re- 
I»oductions  of  mediaeval  life  and  thought,  glimpses  of 
the  authentic  life  of  the  ancient  World  not  less  than  of  the 
modern,  yet  all  touched  with  that  precision  which  marks 
the  stiKient  and  tiie  sdiolar.  In  the  company  of  Robert 
Browning  you  see  from  the  prosaic  eminence  of  a  London 
common  the  overthrow  of  Sodom,  and  the  dread  v>''on 
of  the  Last  Judgment,  as  in  the  wonderful  poem  callea 
EasUr  Di^  ;  you  sail  in  Venetian  gondolas  witnessing  tiie 
drama  of  passion  and  crime ;  you  hide  with  conspirators 
in  the  ruined  aqueducts  of  modern  Italy;  the  scene 
changes  from  the  Ghetto  to  the  Morgue;  from  the  by- 
ways of  London  to  tiie  desorts  of  Arabia ;  from  the  tent 
of  Saul  to  the  plains  of  "  glorious  guilty  Babylon  " ;  from 
the  Shambles'  Gatei  where  the  patriot  rides  out  to  death 
upon  his  hurdle,  to  the  splendid  chambers  of  tilie  conm^ 
•eur,  crowded  witih  the  spoib  of  RenaissMice  art,  wkmt 


BROWNINCre  FHIL080FH7  OF  LIFB  W 

the  Bishop  orders  his  tomb  in  St  Feed's.  Nothing  in 
the  drama  of  human  life  seems  to  escape  Browning;  its 
minutest  by-play  rivets  his  attention  not  less  than'  its 
master  passions.    He  writes,  in  fact,  Uke  a  citizen  of  the 
world,  with  a  shrewd,  hard,  pterdng  intelligence,  which 
goes  straight  to  the  heart  of  things,  touching  them  with 
gentie  cynicism,  or  laying  them  bare  with  the  lightning 
flash  of  inspired  insight    He  is  essentiaUy  dramatic— 
that  is  to  say,  he  habitually  loses  himself  in  the  individ- 
uality of  the  person  he  represents,  his  main  question 
being. "  Now,  what  did  this  man  think,  that  he  acted 
thus  ?  "   He  frequently  labours  with  minute  care  to  buUd 
up  his  picture  of  the  man's  condition,  tiU  we  begin  to  be 
impatient  of  his  patience ;  then  suddenly,  with  some  short, 
sharp  flash  of  thought,  the  whole  soul  of  the  man  is  re- 
vealed as  by  lightning,  and  the  poem  ends.   What  then 
is  Browning's  view  of  Ufc?  His  view  of  leUgion  we  may 
convenientiy  leave  for  a  separate  chapter.   Let  us  ask 
now.  What  is  his  view  of  life? 

The  fint  and  chief  point  in  Browning's  view  of  life  is 
his  intense  sense  of  the  roOlty  of  God  and  the  human 

SOUL 

He  glows  above 
With  scarce  an  intervention,  piMKS  dose 
And  palpitatingly.  His  soul  o'er  ours. 
These  are  the  twin  Pharos-Ughts  of  earthly  life;  the  wild 
surge  of  dreumstance  bieahs  and  darkens  on  aU  sides, 
but  these  abide.   It  matters  not  what  is  hMt  if  God  be 
found,  or  how  much  is  swept  down  into  the  roaring  weik 
of  the  hungry  sea  of  oblivion  if  the  soul  be  saved. 

la  maa'tielf  arise 

August  anticiptfioM,  •jrmbols,  types 
Of  a  dim  qdeadenrem  on  befioic, 
U  dn«  MnrMd  dick  m  ^  Bfe. 


S88  THE  MAKERS  OF  BETCaJBH  FQBIBT 


In  all  mooients  of  supreme  paarion  and  iaqndse  we 

feel  how  thin  is  that  veil  which  shuts  us  from  eternity. 
The  lover  in  the  Last  Bid*  utten  this  thought  when  he 
cries. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-iught} 
These  moments  of  exaltation  are  tiie  true  index  to 
the  greatness  <^  the  soul  of  man,  and  therefore  are  to  be 
sought  and  cherished  above  all  other  gain.  What  are 
progress,  science,  knowledge,  love,  art,  in  the  light  of 
these  higher  thoughts?  They  are  simply  so  many 
golden  toads  which  lead  to  God,  so  many  shining  stairs 
on  which  the  half-visible  shapes  of  spiritual  presences 
go  up  and  down.  There  is  a  world  of  spirit  as  of  sense, 
and  the  gleams  of  spiritual  knowledge  which  visit  m 

Were  nwant 
To  sting  with  hunger  for  full  light 

Art  is  not  to  be  praised  for  what  it  achieves,  but  for 
what  it  aspires  to.  It  is  the  yearning  of  the  spirit,  not 
tiie  skill  of  the  hand,  which  gives  it  its  real  value. 

Progress,  man's  <&dnctive  mark  alone. 

Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' ;  God  is,  they  aie. 

Man  partly  is,  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 

No  English  poet  has  written  so  fully  upon  art  and 
music,  ot  has  shown  mme  omclusivdy  an  exact  knowl- 
edge and  delicate  taste  in  both  ;  but  no  poet  is  less  of 
a  dilettante.  Art  is  simply  an  aspiration;  when  the 
artist  is  satisfied  with  his  work,  then  he  has  renounced 
all  that  OMMte  h»  art  true  and  worthy.  The  mere  visible 
results  of  art  are  worthless  in  themselves,  and  the  passion 
of  accumulating  them  an  ignoble  passion,  if  it  has  no 
higher  purposes.  Contempt  can  go  no  fiuther  than  to 
picture  sudi  a  connoisseur,  who— 


BBOWNINOnS  PHIL080PHY  OF  LOT!  m 


Above  aB  epitaphs 
A^fares  to  have  hit  tomb  describe 
^iself  as  sole  among  the  tribe 
Of  snuff-box  fanciers  who  posMSied 

A  Grignon  with  the  Regent's  crest 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  in  the  pursuit  of  true  art  that 
Abt  Vogler  gets  his  vision  of  truth  itself,  and  cries :  — 

All  we  have  willed  and  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist 

Not  in  semblance,  but  in  itself ;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  vdce  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  »-^nti 

When  eternity  a£Srms  the  conceptioa  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard. 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky. 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard. 

Enough  that  He  heard  it  once ;  we  shall  hear  it  by  and  by. 

Upon  t' e  general  text  of  this  view  of  life  Browning 
perpetually  engnOb  otiier  lessons.  For  instance,  he  is 
fond  of  showing  that  it  Is  better  and  gnuider  to  foS  in 
great  things  than  to  succeed  in  little  ones.  What  though 
the  pahiot  goes  out  at  the  Shambles'  Gate,  remembering, 
as  he  rides,  flags  flung  wide  for  him  a  year  before  ? 
Thta  I  entered,  and  dins  I  go ! 

In  triumphs  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"  P^d  by  the  World— what  doM  Oob  owe 
Me?"Godmi|^qaeslieB;  BowiBMikl 
•Tis  God  shall  repay  I   I  am  safer  sa 

So,  again,  in  the  Grammarian's  Funeral,  Browning 
puts  into  four  terse  and  epigranunatic  lines  the  same 
truth:. 

This  low  man  seeks  a  Btde  Mj^tsdsb 

Sees  it  and  does  it  ; 
This  high  man,  with  a  grett  tliaf  to  panae, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it 

A  trutii  which  Browning  is  never  weaiy  of  illustrat- 
iag  is  tiiat  to  aD  man  tfatre  oome  moownti  Of  half-inspired 


990  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBY 


tnsiglit,  the  keen  and,  perhaps,  momentary  thrill  of  great 
impulses,  and  that  a  man's  whole  eternity  hangs  upon 
tl^e  use  of  such  visitations.  The  revelation  may  be  made 
in  human  love;  it  may  be  a  vision  of  knowlalge,  or  of 
duty;  but  it  is  imperative  that  when  such  transfiguring 
moments  come  we  should  be  ready  to  seize  them.  In 
such  Divine  moments  we  see  the  narrow  way  that  leads 
to  life  etemaL 

There  are  flashes  Btruck  from  midnights, 
There  are  fire-flames  noondays  Idndle. 

Whereby  piled-up  honours  perish. 
Whereby  tw<dB  ambitions  dwindle ; 

While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse. 

Which  for  once  had  play  unstifled. 
Seems  the  whole  work  of  a  lifetime. 

That  away  the  rest  has  trifled. 

What  if  it  be  said  such  moments  are  transient,  that 
ecstasy  is  rare,  that  such  high  visions  fade  as  soon  as 
bom  ?  The  vision  may  perish,  but  tiie  lesson  it  renak 
remains.  Life  which  is  not  vivified  by  »'aith  and  emotion 
is  scarcely  life  at  all.  The  worst  of  all  woes  is  worldli- 
ness ;  to  sink  down  in  tranquil  acquiescence  before  the 
customs  of  a  low-pitdied  life,  and  iwver  to  l»eak  tbroui^ 
into  that  eternal  world  which  invests  the  visible  world 
like  an  invisible  atmosphere,— this  is  spiritual  death,  and 
there  is  no  death  to  be  feared  but  that.  Why,  the  very 
fpcmiioppot 

Spends  itself  in  tesps  sD  dxj 
To  reach  the  sun.  you  want  the  eyes 
To  see.  as  they  the  wings  to  rise 
And  match  the  nobk  hearts  of  them. 

Wodd  tiie  grasshopper,  with  his  "passionate  life" 
dumge  estate  with  the  im>le  that  gropes  in  his  "veritaU* 


BBO'WNINCPS  raiLOe(M»HY  OF  LIFE  291 
muck*;?  Thus  the  vWoa  of  Ufe  which  shapes  itself  to 
Browning  »  the  vision  of  «  g«at  worid  in  which  the 
spiritual  ,s  ever  in  peril  of  being  throttled  by  the  sordid 
thi  thf^r!         °^  Browning's  philosophy  of  life  i 
then,  that  hfe  is  probation  and  education.   Nothing  is  of 
value  in  itself,  but  for  that  to  which  it  leads,  for  the  h.io 
that  It  may  yield  the  spirit  in  its  long  battle  to  gain  en', 
franchisement  from  the  flesh,  and  inherif-nce  iritfa  God. 
Just  M  the  utmost  spoil  of  knowledge  only  serves  to  sfng 
us  with  hunger  for  fuller  Mght.  so  Ac  utmost  wealth  of 

^r*^''  '°  P^ibilities  of  thetove 

of  God.   There  is  "no  pause  in  the  leading  writhe 

There's  heaven  above,  and  night  by  night 
I  loolt  right  thrrrjgh  its  goigeom  roof; 
For  I  intend  to  get  to  God. 

Life  has  manifold  sweet  and  pleasant  uses ;  let  the  odour 
of  the  April,  and  the  freshness  of  the  sea,  the  miiacle  of 
science  the  ineffable  yearning  of  perfect  musfc,cr  the 

category  of  life ;  and  be  accepted  with  no  ascetic  scruple, 
but  genial  gratitude.  But  they  are  nothing  more  tL 
broken  hints,  by  which  men  learn  the  alphabet  of  betlr- 

^  things  is  death 

ttat  Browmng  so  eagerly  applauds  any  life  that  flings  it- 

I^d  isTnnr  '•'^  the  distort  and  unattai,S>le. 
and  is  at  all  timesso  merciful  towards  earthly  failure.  He 
toves  to  show  u%  that  beneath  the  rough  husk  of  lives 
which  seem  wasted,  there  lies  hidden  the  true  seed  of  a 
hfe  which  will  one  day  bloom  consummate  in  beauty. 

l"e  l^Tn— r  *°  u*? '     '"""^  "PP"*'"*^^  '^'^f^ 

to  """^ll  point  out 

rt»  »«itial  efflptmesi  with  an  u-ony  eo  keen  and  stem  that 


99S  THE  MAKERS  OP  BHGLIHH  POETRY 

it  wouM  be  bitter  were  H  not  ioftened  by  flie  pathos  of  » 
human-hearted  pity.   Above  all,  there  is  no  touch  of  pes- 
simism in  him ;  he  looks  undismayed  above  present  evib 
to  the  brightening  of  a  diviner  day. 
Therefore,  to  whom  turn  I,  but  to  Thee,  the  toelfcble  Nwaef 
Builder  and  Maker,  Thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  Thee,  who  art  ever  the  sam^  ? 
Doubt  that  Thy  power  can  fin  the  heart  lliat  Thy  p9«er  ««• 
pands? 

There  ahall  never  be  one  lost  good !  What  was.  shall  Uve  as 

The  evil  is  null,  is  nought,  is  silence  implying  sound  ; 

On  the  earth,  the  broken  area  j  in  the  heaven,  a  peitet  tsoad. 


XXVII 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  BROWNINGS  REUOION 

HAVING  said  so  much  as  I  have  about  Brown- 
ing's intmse  interest  in  life,  it  nttataSiy  follows 
that  something  should  be  said  about  his  atti- 
tude to  religion,  and  the  spirit  of  his  religious  teaching. 
The  great  poet  is  necessarily  a  great  believer.  The  faculty 
which  pjerces  to  tiie  unseat,  and  wmrks  in  OMStant  ddi- 
cate  contact  with  the  invisible,  is  a  iaculty  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  equipment  of  a  true  poet  The  poetry 
of  &itiikssness  is  an  abnormal  growth.  It  luu,  little  range 
or  vitality.  It  never  attains  to  really  high  and  me&orable 
results.  When  the  spring  of  faith  is  broken,  eveiy  faculty 
of  the  mind  seems  to  share  in  the  vast  disaster.  And  es- 
pecially do  the  ftculties  of  imagination,  spiritual  insight, 
and  toider  fancy,  which  are  tiie  nastefHtfdiiteels  of 
poetry,  suffer.  The  loss  of  faith  strikes  a  chill  to  the 
central  core  of  being,  and  robs  the  artist  of  more  than 
half  the  material  from  which  the  highest  poeay  is  woven. 

On  the  other  hand,  tile  power  of  qiiritttal^siifdiaisioa 
is  one  of  the  surest  signs  whereby  we  know  a  great  poet 
It  is  the  function  of  the  <Treat  poet  to  be  a  seer  and  inter- 
i»eter.  He  sees  fordier,  deeper,  and  higher  than  ordinaty 
men,  and  interi>ret5  for  the  comnum  man  vAut  he  dimty 
feels  but  does  not  fully  apprehend.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  the  message  of  the  poet,  the  result  of  his  spiritual  in- 
sist, may  irat  shape  with  our  preconceived  notions  and 
theories ;  but  where  the  spiritual  insig^  is  nne  aad  real, 
the  true  poet  never  fiub  to  quIckeB  iasi^  hiUa  nadt^  . 


29i  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


Perhaps  no  man  has  done  more  in  our  generation  to 
quicken  and  sharpen  the  spiritual  insight  of  men  than 
drowning.  Preeminently  he  is  a  religious  poet  Religion 
eaten  into  aU  his  woric,  like  a  fri^pranceora  cdourtfidiidi 
clings  to  some  delicate  and  lovely  fabric,  and,  while  occa- 
sionally subdued  or  modified,  is  never  lost  Browning's 
vast  knowledge  of  the  worki  never  d^enerates  into  worid- 
Uness.  He  seeks  to  know  the  world  in  all  its  aspects,  all 
its  strange  and  vague  contradictions,  and  seeks  rather  than 
shims  its  sad  and  seamy  side.  If  he  is  an  optimist  it  is 
not  because  he  is  an  idealist,  and  the  most  striking  thing 
about  his  optimism  is  that  it  thrives  in  the  full  knowledge 
of  the  baseness  and  evil  of  the  world.  But  the  curiosity 
which  impels  Browning  to  investigate  the  darker  side  of 
life  is  never  altogether  an  artistic  curiosity:  it  is  a  relig- 
ious curiosity.  What  then  is  the  net  result?  What  are 
the  great  facts  on  which  he  builds  his  faith  ?  What  are 
the  sources  of  that  religious  buoyancy  which  is  so  re- 
markable in  so  thorough  a  citizen  of  tiw  wofM»  and  es- 
pecially in  an  age  when  so  many  of  the  foremost  writeis 
and  thinkers  have  given  themsdves  over  to  i^ostidsm 
or  despair? 

Now,  the  actual  religion  of  a  man  can  usuall}*  be  re- 
duced to  a  few  simple  truths  which  are  grasped  with  entire 
belief,  and  thus  become  the  working  principles  of  his  life. 
Few  men  believe  with  equal  conviction  all  the  various 
dogmas  of  religious  truth ;  but  while  many  may  remain 
(^cure,  there  are  others  which  are  revealed  with  a  vivid- 
ness of  light  and  force  which  constitute  them  henceforth 
the  pillars  of  a  man's  real  life.  Thus,  for  instance,  St. 
James  has  defined  what  pure  religion  and  untfefiled  OMa^ 
to  him  in  one  simple  and  sufficing  formula — charity  and 
imworldliness,  visiting  the  fatherless,  and  keq^iq;  ^soul 


THEspiaiTOFmiowxiira'BBiijaiEar  m 

unspotted  from  tlie  world.  So  Bimmiag  htm  grasped, 
with  all  his  force,  certain  religiout  truthi  which  appMrto 
him  the  soul  and  naarrow  of  Christitaify,  and  thcM  mth 
stitute  the  spirit  of  his  religion. 

The  best  iUustration  of  the  woridng  of  Browning's 
genius  in  the  realm  of  religious  truth  may  be  found  in 
such  a  po«.m  as  Easter  Day.   This  poem  is  a  wonderful 
poem  in  more  respects  than  one:  it  is  wonderful  in  its 
ibiagery,  its  intensity  of  ins^ht,  iti  daring,  iti  vividncM, 
the  closeness  of  its  reasoning,  the  sustained  splendour  of 
ite  diction,  the  prophetic  force  of  its  conclusions.   It  be- 
gins with  the  discuMion  of  two  speakers,  who  agree  "  How 
very  hard  it  is  to  be  a  Christian."   But  each  speaker  otten 
tiie  phrase  in  a  different  sense:  the  one  finds  Christianity 
hard  as  a  matter  of  faith,  unproved  to  tiie  inteUect;  the 
otheras  a  matterofpractice,  unrealized  in  the  life.  Itwould 
not  be  difficult  to  be  a  martyr,  and  find  a  Hand  phinged 
tijrough  the  flame  to  pluck  the  soul  up  to  God,  if,  indeed, 
one  could  be  certain  of  any  such  result ;  it  is  hard  to  believe 
on  less  than  scientific  evidence.  To  renounce  the  world  on 
such  evidence  as  we  have  would  be  foUy.  Suppose,  after 
such  renunciation,  a  man  found  he  had  given  up  the  only 
world  tiiere  was  for  him  ?   Then  ensues  Uie  poem  itself, 
which  consists  of  the  description  of  a  vision  of  tiie  final 
judgment  which  Uie  man  of  faitii  received,  and  whkh 
shook  him  out  of  tiie  very  web  of  negation  in  which  his 
fnend  stiuggles.   Suddenly,  as  he  crossed  a  common  at 
midnight,  occupied  with  thew  very  thoughts,  all  the  mid- 
night became  "one  fire."  There  shot  acron  the  done 
of  heaven, "  like  horror  and  astottishment," 

A  fierce  vindictive  scribble  oficd. 

And  Mra^ht  I  wu  aware 
That  tern  whole  libiretk  nmad. 


S96  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBY 


Cloud  touching  cloud  beyond  compute 
Wu  tinted,  each  with  itt  own  spot 
Of  b«niiag  at  the  cote,  till  clot 
JaauMd  i«aiM  dot.  ud  ^  to  fin 
OmaB  hMvn. 

This  awful  vision  buraed  away  all  darkness  from 
spirit,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  diosen  not  God,  but 
Worid.  Install^  he  resolved  to  defend  and  applaud 
choice.  God  had  created  him  to  appreciate  the  beau 
of  life,  and  he  had  not  put  aside  the  boon  unused— 4 
was  all  But  at  that  instant  tiiere  cane  a  final  bdd 
fiit«»  and  be  saw  God — 

UhtdwMBsht 

FfUared  o'er  Sodflai  wlwB  day  bnht— 
I  saw  Him. 

Then  God  spoke.  He  had  chosen  the  World ;  let 
l^ut  his  sense  upon  the  World,  but  remember  he 
shut  out  from  the  heaven  of  spirit  But  what  was 
Wotld,  with  aU  its  brave  she ^  of  bcanty?  Umfy 
fOie  of  God's  maldni;,  fiuag 

Out  of  a  summer's  opulence, 
Over  dw  Eden  barrier,  whence 
TImm  aft  eaclwtted. 

Well,  then,  he  would  choose  Art,  to  which  the  v 
of  God  replies  yet  more  sternly  that  Art  is  less  < 
Nature ;  and  lis  highest  trophies  the  shame  and  des 
of  artists,  who  sought  therein  to  express  the  invi! 
whole  of  which  they  perceived  but  a  part.  Then  he 
choose  Mind,  the  joys  of  Intellect;  but  what  again 
plies  the  Joc^,  is  Ifind  but  a  gleun  «h*di  to  tfie  de 
thinker 


THEePIBITOFfiBOWinNGraBELIOIQH  t»7 

Makes  bright  the  earth  \n  age- 
Now,  (he  whole  ton's  his  heritage  i 

Lastly.he  perceives  there  is  nolhuig  lift  but  LoM^Mid 
that  thall  be  his  choice. 

God  tot  thou  art— the  nstb  haded 


He  has  doubted  the  story  of  Christ  because  he  could 
not  coaedve  to  great  love  in  God— 


Upon  the  ground 
That  in  the  story  had  been  loand 
Too  mnch  level  HewcooMGod 
Ht.  wlM  ia  aB  Itti  workt  beloir. 
Adapted  to  the  needs  of  man. 
Made  love  tne  baaia  of  His  plan. 
DMl8«t.as«as 


love  sat 


In  that  moment  he  saw  that  God's  love  was  the  solu- 
tion of  aU  inteUeetoal  diflkulttes,  and  then,  as  he  lay 
prone  and  overtHwhned, 

The  whole  God  uttriaUs^ 


So  the  poem  ends  a  vision  of  Divine  unaHendUe  bve 
as  the  solution  of  the  mystery  of  the  universe. 

The  infinite  issue  of  human  choice  is,  again,  one  of 
those  strong  bdleft  which  with  Browning  form  the  spirit 
of  his  religion.  He  reiterates  persistentiy  and  in  many 
forms  that  any  choice  which  falls  short  of  God  is  ruinot» 
in  its  sequence.  For  instance,  the  speaker  in  Easter 
Day  is  taught  the  foliy  of  choosittg  Mhid  by  perceiving 
that  the  highest  genius  of  man  is  but  a  gleam  fitm  ti« 
unexhausted  sun  which  pouis  light  through  aa  etemd 


898  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


world.  But  Browning,  in  one  of  his  greatest  poem, 
Panutlsus,)>»M  gone  much  further  than  this.  In  that 
poem  ha  haa  ihowii  that  iBtcllcct  widiout  Love,  withoitt 
VUnnSiltf,  without  Character,  is  of  all  forces  the  moat 
perilous.  Paracelsus  has  sought  to  Know.  What  has 
his  desire  brought  him  but  bittemeu  and  disappoint- 
meat?  So  poignant  b  hia  aeaae  of  fiNDuie Oitt  ha  erett 
criaa: 

Mind  is  Bothiag  but  disease. 

And  in  the  final  pathetic  scene  he  derides  the  folly  of 
audi  inteflectual  pani(»s  as  those  which  have  consumed 
him,  Slid  aaaa  dcaily  tiiat  to  Love  ii  better  ttaa  to  Know 

No,  no; 

Love,  hope,  fear,  faith-  -these  make  humaidlf. 
These  are  its  sign  ar«d  note  and  character, 
Andtesslhf  «lost 

Throughout  his  writings  Bro#ning  shows  himsdf  in- 
xaakkf  opposed  to  the  modem  tiieistie  fdiHoaopliy 

hich  makes  the  individual  the  centre  of  the  universe, 
and  steadily  teaches  the  more  ancient  doctrine  of  Him 
vAtOt  being  rich,  for  our  salna  beoum  poor,  'Jiat  we,  by 
His  poverty,  might  become  ridi — 

Reaooacejejr  for  my  Mow's  sake?  Thafsjoy 
Beyond  jojr. 

But  this  all-]Mfesent  sense  of  God's  love  implies  also 
such  truths  as  communion,  prayer,  providence ;  and  these 
also  are  incorporated  in  Browning's  religion.  The  no- 
blest example  of  Awning's  expresslMi  of  thcM  doctrinea 
is  found  in  the  short  but  splendid  poem,  Instans  Tyrannus. 
It  ia  the  Tyrant  who  sp«dcs.   Out  of  the  million  or  twa 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  BBOWNINCraBEUaK»r  M0 

of  men  he  posseues  there  ii  one  nun  not  at  all  to  hb 
mind.  He  struck  him,  of  courM,  but  though  pinned  to 
d»  ttrth  wMi  the  peniatence  of  so  great  a  hate  he 
neither  oMNHMd  nor  otiMd.  He  ia  aodifaif  but  a  toed  or 
a  rat,  but  nevertheless  the  Tyrant  cannot  eat  in  peace 
while  he  Uvea  to  anger  him  with  his  abominable  meck- 
So  he  aoberly  lays  his  last  plan  to  extinguish  the 


versiuu  of  As 


Whenindden  .  .   .  how  think  ytF 
Did  I  say   wtehout  friend  "  ? 
Sajr,  fatttr.  hem  muge  to  blue  nuugc. 
The  whole  tky  grew  his  Ui^, 
With  the  sun's  self  for  vkible  boss. 
While  an  am  ran  aerass  I 
Do  you  see  ?  Just  my  vengeaact 
The  man  sprang  to  his  feet. 
Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  sUrts,  and 
— So/ wu  afraid? 

The  poem  is  a  sort  of 
fiuniliar  hymn-lines :  — 

Strong  to  deliver,  and  good  to  ledeem 
The  waakest  beHerer  who  hangs  upon  nab 
The  centre  of  Browning's  whole  world  of  icUgious 
thought  lies  in  his  abiding  sense  and  conviction  that  God 
is:  Love.    It  reconciles  him  to  tl    -mysteries  of  faith,  it 
'^ts  a  bright  bridge  of  gleaming     .pe  across  the  pro- 
cund  gul6  of  human  error,  and    <e  the  lunar  rainbow 
he  describes,  a  second  and  mightier  bow  springs  from  tile 
first,  and  stands  vast  and  steady  above  the  mysterious 
portals  rf  human  destiny,  on  whose  straining  topmost 
arc  he  sees  emerge  tiie  foot  of  God  Hhnseif.  «God  it 
good.  God  is  wise,  God  is  love,"  a  the  perpetual  whisper 
of  spiritual  voices,  floatii^  over  him,  and  l^n^'^  w^ 


800   THE  MAyy^j^  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


their  divine  sweetness  the  evil  darkness  of  the  tortuous 
way  he  threads  in  tracking  out  the  strange  secrets  of 
human  impulse  and  achievement  All  knowledge  is  but 
tiie  shadow  of  God's  light ;  all  purity  and  constancy  of 
human  passion  but  the  hint  of  His  love ;  all  beauty  but 
the  fitful  gleam  of  His  raiment  as  He  passes  us — that 
King  in  His  beauty  whose  face  itsdf  we  shall  at  bet  be- 
hold  in  the  land  that  is  very  far  off.  If  Browning  standi 
amid  the  ruins  of  that  mighty  city,  which  in  a  single  year 
sent  its  million  fighters  forth,  and 

Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime. 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 

it  is  to  turn  at  last  from  the  vtston  of  tiiat  domed  and 
daring  palace,  tiie  sfdendid  qwctade  oi  power  and  pon^, 
to  ciy: 

Shut  them  in, 
\^  their  triumphs,  and  (bUx  glories,  and  Oe  lett ; 
Lovetobettl 

If  he  considers  the  failing  of  human  power  in  the  pres- 
ence of  death,  it  is  only  to  exclaim,  with  a  sense  of  tri- 
tmtphant  gladness: 

Grow  old  along  with  me  t 
The  best  is  yet  to  be. 
The  last  of  life  for  which  the  first  was  made ; 
Our  time*  are  in  Hit  hand. 

Who  saith :    A  whole  I  planned. 
Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  God  ;  see  all,  nor  be  afxaid ! " 

He  has  infinite  faith  in  God,  that  His  love  wOl,  in 
my  unknown  to  us,  work  out  uHimate  Ueaedness  for 
His  children,  and  that  the  wcMr'd  will  not  pass  out  in  dark- 
ness, but  in  the  end  of  the  ages  it  will  be  daybreak  eveix- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  BBOWNIllCnSBELIQlQEr  m 
Not  mdy  it  tiwre  ik>  dc^air:  tbeie  it  no  toudi 


nrhere, 
of 


djihcBrteiuiient 


even  m 


Browiiiag-~ 


Languor  is  not  in  his  heart, 
Wealcness  is  not  in  his  woid, 
Wcaiinets  not  M  fab  bmr. 

He  awaits  the  revelation  of  eternity;  tiien  all  will  be 
made  clear.  The  lost  leader,  who  has  forsaken  the  great 
cause  of  progress— "just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left 
ia"--4iiay  never  be  received  back  save  in  doubt,  hesita- 
tion, and  pain  by  his  old  conuades;  but  the  estrmx^ement 
of  earth  will  not  outlast  earth  

Let  him  iccdve  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  at 
Pudoaed  ia  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne  I 

Caponsacchi,  the  great  and  ncblc  priest,  the  "  soklier- 
saint "  of  Tkf  Ring  and  the  Booi,  murt  needb  henceforth 
pass  through  life  with  the  shadow  of  Pompilia's  sweet 
presence  laid  across  his  heart,  and  all  the  purest  aspira- 
tion of  his  life  covered  in  her  grave.  WeU,  is  there  not  a 
fu.ther  world,  where  they  neither  many  nor  are  gfvea  hi 
nuuriage? 

Oh.howi%htitisl  bowliksjesi 
To  sajr  duttt 

So  let  him  wait  Ged^  faisUnt.  men  caU  , 
Meanwhile  hold  baid  bjr  troth  and  hk  anal 
Do  out     doty  I  ^ 

TheynglVmipilkaeeahimthehwof  ■ouhlihehis 

«nterpcets  the  meaning  of  the  tove  of  God,  and  cries 
• 

Through  such  souls  alone 
God,  ■tm^ing,  shows  snffident  of  His  %ht 
Forosi'thedHktoiiMlir.  AadlriM. 

^»*«»  Brownhig  standi  instich  a  place  as  the 
nofgiK,  amid  the  ghastfiaess  of  tregie  fidhs*  tad  d»- 


803  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBY 


spair,  touched  though  he  be  with  mournfulness,  yet  this 
strong  and  living  hope  does  not  leave  him,  and  he  stiU 
can  write: 

It's  wiser  being  good  than  bad, 

It's  safer  being  me'.k  than  fierce. 
It's  fi  ter  being  sane  thai  mad. 

My  own  hope  b,  a  sa.i  will  fmrce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched ; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First. 
Though  a  wide  compass  first  be  fetched ; 

That  what  began  best  can't  end  worst. 

Nor  what  God  blest  once  prove  accurst. 

In  other  words,  whatever  dreary  intervals  there  may 
be  of  folly,  darkness,  misery,  the  wotid  God  blessed  in 
the  beginning  will  roll  round  into  the  light  at  last;  and 
when  His  purpose  is  complete,  there  will  be  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  wherein  dwelleth  righteousness. 


XXVIII 

BROWNINGPS  ATTITUDE  TO  CHRIS. 
TIANITY 

IN  the  last  chapter  we  noticed  that  one  of  the  ab- 
normr:  growths  of  modern  poetry  is  a  poetiy  of 
negation.    We  may  add  that  this,  in  its  last  de- 
velopment, has  become  a  poetiy  of  despair.   And  the 
source  of  that  despair  is  inability  to  receive  the  truths  of 
Chnstirjity.  SincetheadventofGoetheamovementvoy 
similar  tc  the  Renaissance  in  Italy  has  passed  over  the 
whole  of  Europe.   There  has  been  a  return  to  Paganism 
concurrentiy  with  a  wide-sptead  revival  in  art  and  culture' 
The  dogmas  of  the  Church  have  been  vehemently  assailed, 
and  the  ethical  teachings  of  Christianity  disputed  The 
movement  initiated  by  Goethe  has  spread  throughout  the 
world.   It  has  received  impulse  from  strange  quartere 
and  given  impulse  in  strange  directions.   Its  legitimate' 
outcome  in  Germany  is  found  in  the  long  line  of  great 
scholars  who  have  devoted  indefatigable  genius  and 
l^tience  to  the  work  of  destinetive  BibUcal  criticism. 
I  here  may  appear  to  be  a  wide  enough  gulf  between  the 
calm  paganism  of  Goethe  and  the  vehement  controversial 
temper  of  German  theological  schohirship,  but  neverthe- 
less the  one  is  a  ^e  child  of  the  other. 

Added  to  this,  there  must  be  reckoned  the  extnordi- 
nary  growth  of  natural  science  during  the  present 
cenhiiy.  The  minds  of  tiie  greatest  tiiinkers  have  been 
riveted  on  the  problem  of  the  or^  of  tilings.  The  re- 
sults of  theur  investigation  have  been  pubUdwd  wUk  tht 

SOS 


804  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


hardihood  and  confidence  of  complete  conviction.  In 
their  researches  as  to  the  working  of  natural  law  they 
have  completely  ignored  all  that  is  supematuraL  Their 
temper  towards  the  supernatural  has  been  one  of  con- 
temptuous indifference  or  embittered  hostility.  Thus, 
then,  two  forces  of  immense  strength  have  been  steadily 
at  work  upon  the  structure  of  received  opinion ;  the  one 
force,  fearien  rationalism,  the  other,  fearless  paganism. 
Culture  has  been  preached  as  the  true  substitute  for 
Christianity,  Art  and  Beauty  as  the  all-sufficient  gospels 
for  human  life.  We  have  only  to  turn  to  the  literature  of 
the  last  half-century  to  see  how  Sax  theat  influences  have 
permeated.   The  essayist  and  poet  have  alike  conspired 
to  preach  the  new  doctrine.   The  stream  of  tendency 
thus  created  has  sufficient  examples  in  the  beautiful 
paganism  of  Keats  and  tiie  garruknis  mediaevate  <rf 
Morris. 

But  there  is  another  class  of  writers  who  have  no\ 
been  able  so  easily  to  dismiss  the  great  bdie&  by  whid 
centuries  of  men  and  women  have  lived  and  striven 
They  have  been  allured,  fascinated,  and  repelled  alter 
nately ;  they  have  hoped  and  doubted ;  in  their  voice 
is  the  sound  of  weeping,  in  thdr  words  Ae  vitnatim 
of  long  suffering;  for  whatever  attitude  they  may  hav 
taken  towards  Christianity  they  have  never  relapsed  int( 
reckless  indifference.  This  eager  scrutiny  of  religiou 
dogmas  by  the  best  and  keenest  minds  (rf*  tiie  age  is,  a 
kast,  a  proof  that  such  men  have  been  alive,  and  eve 
agonizingly  alive,  to  the  tremendous  importance  of  thos 
dogmas.  Poetry  in  the  nineteenth  centiuy  has  sought  t 
be  the  minister  of  theological  truth  not  less  than  o 
artistic  beauty,  and  as  a  consequence  the  theologia 
problems  of  the  century,  and  in  less  d^ree  the  sdentifi 


athtdbe  to  CHBiffnAimT  ms 

problems  abo^have  been  inextricably  interwoven  with 
Its  fine  warp  and  woof  of  exquisite  creation.  So  that  let 
what  wiU  be  said  about  the  faithlessness  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  nevertheless  the  presence  of  Jesus  Christ  in 
nineteenth  century  literature  is  one  of  its  most  remark- 
able and  indisputable  characteristics. 

But  the  solitary  issue  of  this  intermingling  of  theology 
with  poetry  is  not  perplexity  or  sadness.    There  is  found 
a  very  different  culmination  in  one  poet  at  least,  and  that 
poet  is  Browning.    Browning  has  attacked  theology  with 
the  zeal  and  fervour  of  a  born  disputant.    He  is  not 
merely  a  great  religious  poet,  but  is  distinctively  a 
theological  poet   He  has  deUberately  chosen  for  the 
exercise  of  his  art  the  most  subUe  problems  of  theology, 
and  has  made  his  verse  the  vehicle  for  the  statement  of 
theological  difficulties  and  personal  beliefe.  The  historical 
evidences  and  arguments  of  Christianity  have  exercised 
upon  him  a  deep  and  enduring  fascination.    In  PoHHue 
his  earliest  poem,  the  vision  of  Christ  has  visited  Brows' 
mg,  and  he  cries — 

0  Thou  pale  forai,  m  dimly  wen,  deeiheyed, 

1  have  denied  Thee  calmly—do  I  not 

Pant  when  I  read  of  Thy  consummate  deeds. 

And  burn  to  see  Thy  calm  pnte  tmdu  oot-ftidl 

The  brightest  gleams  of  earth's  philosophy  ? 

Do  I  no»  diake  to  hear  ought  question  Thee  ? 

If  I  am  erring,  save  me,  madden  me. 

Take  from  me  powers  and  pkasuiu.  let  me  ^ 

Ace>.ti>I|peTlieel 

That  vision  of  Christ  has  been  not  cmly  an  ever-prasent, 

but  an  ever-growing,  vision  with  Browning. 

This  spirit  of  passionate  reverence  for  Christ,  which 
Browning  thus  expresses  in  his  first  considerable  poem,  is 
the  spirit  which  lominiaa  hii  entire  wiitin«k  Hm 


M6  THE  ICAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


deq»Mt  n^ttery  CSuriitiaiiitjr  h  Christ  Himself;  that^ 
indeed,  is  its  one  mystery.  Browning  has  been  quick  to 
realize  this,  and  habitually  perceives  and  teaches,  with 
unerring  keenness,  that  in  Christ  all  mysterws  have  solu- 
tion, or  without  Him  are  left  forever  dark  and  impenetra- 
ble. The  method  of  argument  he  pursues  is  peculiarly 
his  own.  He  ranks  himself  for  the  moment  with  the 
RaticMialist,  and  having  detailed  his  conclusions,  goes  on 
to  pn^  them.  ¥ot  this  purpose  dialectic  skill,  irony, 
humour,  and  the  subtlest  analysis  are  his  weapons.  He 
refuses  to  be  content  with  negation ;  it  is  not  enough  to 
say  what  you  do  not  beUeve,  you  must  realize  what  you 
do  believe.  He  pushes  back  the  burden  of  proof  upon  the 
doubter,  and  says  men  have  an  equal  right  to  demand  the 
demonstration  of  a  doubt  as  of  a  creed.  When  every 
shred  <^  evidence  has  been  weighed  and  tested,  thai 
comes  the  moment  to  ask  what  is  left,  and  the  final  verdict 
depends  not  on  the  letter  of  the  evidence,  but  the  spirit ; 
not  on  any  body  of  oral  attestation,  but  on  the  soul  which 
witnesses  within  a  man.  Ths,  with  mai^  variations  and 
differences,  is,  upon  the  whole,  a  fair  statement  of  Brown- 
ing's method  of  argument,  and  the  result  is  never  left  in 
doubt  In  A  Death  in  the  Desert,  where  St.  John  is  sup- 
posed to  utter  his  last  words  of  belief,  the  vaxltct,notin- 
deed  of  the  man  Cerinthus,  who  hears  the  great  cot^Ci- 
sion,  but  of  the  man  who  adds  the  final  note,  is : 

If  Christ,  as  thou  affirmest,  be  of  men. 
Mere  man,  die  first  and  best,  but  notUng  flMNt 
Account  Him,  for  reward  of  what  He  «M( 
Now  and  forever,  'vretchedest  of  al . 

Can  a  mere  man  do  tbb  P 
Yet  Christ  saith  this  He  lived  and  <Bcd  to  dSi 
Call  Christ  then  the  illimiuble  God. 
OrkstI 


athtddk  to  'jHRwruNiTY  tor 

and  he  significantly  addi— 

Btt 'twas  CeriadM  llHtt  b  kM. 

In  of  XMsk,  in  wl^^gtnnBt  story 

of  Lazarus  is  debated  from  the  physictaa's  point  of  view 
the  writer  finaUy  rises  into  a  very  ecstasy  of  faith,  and  the' 
poem  closes  with  this  passionate  exclamation : 

The  very  God !  think,  Abib ;  dost  thou  think? 

So.  the  AU-Great  were  the  AU-Lovii^  loo— 

So.  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice. 

Saytag.    O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here  I 

Face,  My  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  Myself! 

Thou  hast  no  power,  nor  may  conceive  of  Mine. 

But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  Myself  t»le*«. 

And  thou  must  love  Me  who  have  died  for  Aee." 
It  cannot  be  said  that  there  is  the  faintest  touch  of  in- 
toterance  or  scorn  for  honest  doubt  in  Browning's  poeby. 
Yet  no  man  of  our  days  has  pierced  it  with  so  many  tell- 
ing shafts  of  irony  and  reason.    He  adcnowledges  the 
difficulties  of  belief,  and  it  is  plain  to  ever,,  reader  that 
Browning  has  wr«tled  sorely  with  the  angel  in  the  night, 
with  that  impalpable  and  dreadful  shape  which  has  aU  but 
overwhelmed  him.   But  the  morning  has  broken  and 
brought  ite  benediction.    If  the  difficulties  of  belief  are 
cfwt,  the  difficulties  of  unbelief  are  greater.   He  assumes 
at  there  must  be  many  unexplored  lemaindets  in  the 
.or.d  of  thought.   Well,  what  then?  Because  some 
things  are  hidden, are  there  none  revealed? 


When  dens 


What,  my  soul?  See  so  for  and  no  ftMher? 
gnat  and  small, 

Nine-and-ninety  flaw  opa  at  e«r  towdi.  Mi  the  htmdmNh 
appal? 

In  the  kastthtofshavafcWi.  yet  distrast  fa,  the  greatest  of  all? 
That  were  the  last  unraasonaUeness  of  ignorance,  the 


808  THE  ma: 


3MT 


OF  ENGLISH  FOETBY 


final  ftdly  of  indwdttty.  No;  the  wiser  act  it  to  trait 
where  actual  knowledge  fyb.  Faidi  it «  very  fine  woid, 
but 

Yon  niut  mix  Mine  unceruinty 
With  &hh  if  yoa  would  have  fiiUh  be. 

If  a  sdentiiic  foith  is  absurd,  and**  frustrates  the  very  end 
'twas  meant  to  terv^"  he  will  rett  content  widi  a  mere 
pffobability  

So  long  as  there  be  just  enough 
To  pin  my  faith  to,  though  it  hap 
Only  at  points  ;  from  gap  to  gap, 
One  hai^s  up  a  huge  curtain  to. 
Grandly,  nor  seeks  to  have  it  go 
Foldless  and  fiat  along  the  walL 
What  care  I  if  some  interval 
Of  Ufie  less  plainly  may  depend 
On  God  ?  I'd  hang  there  to  the  end. 

Moreover,  it  is  part  of  Go'^'s  good  discipline  to  educate 
us  by  illusion ;  the  point  of  victory,  the  prize  of  the  high 
calling,  perpetually  recedes  to  the  man  who  prestei  to- 
wards tiie  mark. 

We  do  not  see  it,  where  it  is 

At  the  beginning  of  the  race ; 

As  we  proceed,  it  shifts  Its  {dace. 

And  where  we  looked  for  crowns  to  faU, 

We  find  the  tug's  to  come— that's  alL 

Thus  the  uncertainties  of  knowledge  are  in  themselves  a 
beneficent  training  for  the  spirit  of  man ;  they  sting  him 
with  this  Divine  hunger  for  full  light,  they  soften  him  to 
childlike  blessedness  of  mere  trust,  and  teud  to  the  more 
real  and  vivid  hold  upon  the  creed  itself,  by  shaking  from 
it "  tiie  torpor  of  assurance." 
No  poet  dl  our  time  has  so  consistettti^y  attadeed  tiie 


ATHTUDE  TO  CHBI8TIANIIT 

darker  and  more  tangled  probtems  of  human  conduct 
He  confesses  that  "serene  deadness"  puts  him  out  of 
temper.    H«  sympathies,  on  the  other  hand,  go  out  irre- 
8«tihly  tomb  any  sort  of  life,  however  strangely  mis- 
taken  or  at  variance  with  euMom.  whkh  has  real,  throb- 
bing, energetic  vitality  in  it.   To  him  there  is  an  over- 
whelmmg  fascination  in  misunderstood  men.  and  the  more 
tangled  and  intricate  is  the  problem  of  character  and  action 
the  more  eagerly  does  he  approach  it   Not  unnaturaUy 
this  tendency  of  Browning's  genius  has  led  him  through 
many  of  the  darker  Ubyrinths  of  human  motive,  and  oc- 
casionaUy,  as  in  Mr.  Sludge,  the  Medium,  the  riddle  has 
not  been  wortii  tiie  prolonged  appUcation  he  has  devoted 
to  It   But  in  no  class  of  poems  is  Browning's  intense  re- 
ligious conviction  more  remarkably  displayed.   The  same 
retn-*  upon  mere  fiUth  which  he  makes  in  subtie  ques- 
tir        theology  he  obserm  also  in  deaUng  with  the 
k*t»«f  u  °-  J?"'"*"  .*=°"***'<=t-   His  method  of  treatinent 

L  !^     7  P°«"^  ^''^ich  deal  witii 

character  and  conduct  deal  with  character  and  conduct 
more  or  less  impertect.  In  aU  such  case.  Ae  blemish  ii 
laid  bare  with  unerring  accuracy.  There  are  no  glozing 
words  to  cover  moral  lapses,  no  spun  purple  of  fine 
phrase,  to  hide  the  hideousnes.  of  spiritual  l<^rosy.  BuJ 
Browning  describes  such  live,  not  to  display  theirVorrup- 

T'k   I?.  °f        «fe  '^hich  may 

yet  be  hidden  in  them.  Few  lives  are  so  evil  but  that 
some  golden  threap  are  woven  in  the  coa«e  fabric ;  some 
Jl^J'^^^^e  »eft  which,  If  followed,  may  be  the  due  to 

Oh,  we're  sunk  enough,  God  knows  1 
But  not  quite  so  sunk  that  moments. 
Son.  tbo^^  seldMn,  an  denied  OS 


810  THB  MAKSBS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBY 


When  the  spirit's  true  endowmenu 
Stud  out  ^nly  from  iu  filM  one*. 
AadappriMit.lf  pwMiaf 
On  the  right  way  or  the  wroogvay. 

To  its  triumph  or  undoing. 

The  "  poor  impulse,"  the  one  obscure,  true  iiutincW 
which  vibrates  under  a  smothered  or  sinful  nature,  may 

be  tiw  starting-point  towards  ideal  goodness.  But,  if 
man  be  evil,  God  is  good,  and  the  soul  of  the  universe  is 
just.  Browning  is  bound  to  admit  that  some  natures  seem 
hopelessly  corrupt ;  at  all  events  he  fails  to  find  the  germ 
of  renovation  in  them.  They  have  chosen  the  evil  part 
which  cannot  be  taken  away  from  them.  They  have  had 
their  choice — 

The  earthly  joys  lay  palpable  — 
A  taint,  in  each  distinct  as  well ; 
The  heavenly  flitted,  faint  and  luc, 
Above  them,  but  as  truly  were 
Taintless,  so,  in  their  nature  best. 
Thy  choice  was  earth ;  thou  didst  attest 
TVaa  fitter  spirit  dwold  snbsifve 
The  flesh. 

When  Browning  confronts  such  natures,  his  second 
method  tomes  into  play;  he  falls  back  upon  faith— bitli 
in  the  wise  order  and  infinite  goodness  of  God.  The 
most  marked  example  of  this  method  is  in  that  splendid 
dramatic  sketch,  Pippa  Passes.  No  more  awful  picture 
of  guilt  triumphing  in  its  guiltiness,  of  corruption  intox- 
icated  with  the  abandonment  and  depraved  joy  of  its  own 
wickedness,  has  any  poet  given  us  than  the  Ottima  of 
that  poem.  There  stands  the  villa,  with  its  closed  shut- 
ers ;  within  it  the  murdered  man,  and  the  guilty  woman 
pouring  out  her  confessions  <rf  passion  to  the  man  yibo 
slew  him.  Can  human  action  produce  a  more  htdemw 


ATTITDDB  TO  CHRMTUNnT  811 


combtnation  ?  Yet  the  lun  shines  fair,  and  "  God  hu 
not  said  a  word."  Has  God's  good  govemnent  ^  thingi 
broken  down,  then  ?  No,  indeed.  Pippa  panes— Pippa, 
the  poor  girl  with  her  one  day's  holiday  in  the  whole 
year,  yet  happy,  cheerful,  trustful ;  and  as  she  pauses  she 
sings  r^ukn  to  our  doubn  of  God,  and  torrar  to  tiM 
nacx  Dean  oi  \Aiuuns 

The  year's  at  the  ipiing. 
And  day's  at  the  mom ; 
Monriaf  *s  at  seven ; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing, 
God's  in  His  heaven. 
All's  r^ht  with  the  world. 

It  is  thus  Browning,  like  many  a  ^reat  spirit  before 
him,  falls  back  upon  faith  in  God,  saying  in  effect  what 
Abrduun  said  whra  confronted  wMi  tiie  comqpCkm  of 
man  and  the  judgment  of  God :  •*  Shall  aoC  tiir  Jwlfe  Of 
aU  the  earth  do  right?" 


BROWNING'S  SIGNIFICANCE  IN  UTER^ 

ATURE 


BROWNING  stands  utterly  alone  in  English 
poetry ;  he  hat  no  prototype,  and  he  can  have  nb 
successor.    He  has  created  his  style,  as  he  has 
also  created  his  readers.    In  almost  every  other  poet  of 
our  day  we  can  trace  the  course  of  influences,  more  or 
kss  defined,  which  have  shaped  the  poetic  form  and 
moulded  the  poetic  thought.    Browning  has  had  no 
model.  If  we  except  the  faintest  possible  trace  of  Shelley's 
influence,  which,  Uke  an  ethereal  fragrance,  haunte;  the 
pages  of  PMitu,  we  may  say  fhat  he  shows  no  sign  of 
the  influence  of  any  of  the  elder  bards  upon  his  style. 
He  is  unique  in  his  rugged  individuality,  the  subtlety  of 
his  analysis,  the  suggestiveness  and  intensity  of  his 
thought,  the  originality  of  his  phrases,  end,  if  one  may 
use  the  term,  the  extraordinary  agility  of  his  intellect 
His  intuitions  go  by  bounds  and  leaps,  so  that  it  taxes  all 
our  energy  occasionally  to  keep  pace  with  him.  His  pages 
are  Uterally  crammed  fuU  of  thought   All  the  hvuig 
poets  of  the  English  hngiiage  taken  together  have  pro- 
duced nothing  like  the  body  of  thought  which  he  has 
produced.   Moreover,  of  great  latter  day  poets  he  is  tiie 
most  genuine  humourist  when  it  suits  his  purpose. 

Humour,"  it  has  been  said,  "  originally  meant  moisture, 
ft  s^nification  it  metaphorically  retains,  for  it  is  the  very 


SIONIFICAKCE  IN  LITERATURE  318 

juice  of  the  mind,  oosii^;  from  the  brain,  and  enriching 
and  fcftOiaiiig  wherever  it  fhlli.''  Humour  ii,  in  (act, 
based  on  sympathy— a  large,  gtauine,  noble  lympetiix, 

which  embraces  all  kinds  and  conditions  of  human  life 
like  a  genial  atmoephere.  This  gift  Browning  distinctly 
poMCMca,  and  it  explaim  the  variety  of  hit  poems. 
Nothing  fhat  pertains  to  man  is  foreign  to  him.  But  the 
humour  of  Browning  does  not  manifest  itself  so  much  in 
individually  ludicrous  forms  as  in  a  general  humorous  at- 
titude towards  all  sorts  of  forms.  To  quote  a  portion  of 
the  famous  definition  of  humour  given  by  Dr.  Bamnv, 
and  whtch,  according  to  Mackintosh,  affords  the  greatest 
"  proof  of  mastery  over  language  ever  given  by  an  Eng- 
lish writer,"  it  may  be  saki  of  Browning's  hnmoiir, 
"Sometimes  it  luriceth  under  an  odd  sinyUtude, sooM* 
times  it  is  lodged  in  a  sly  expression,  in  a  smart  answer, 
in  a  quirkish  reason,  in  a  shrewd  intimation,  in  cunningly 
diverting  or  cleverly  retorting  an  objection ;  sometimes 
it  is  couched  in  a  bold  scheme  of  speech,  in  a  tart 
irony,  in  a  lusty  hyperbole,  in  a  startling  metaphor,  in 
a  plausible  reconciling  of  contradictions,  or  in  aco*e  non- 
sense* 

The  worst  form  which  Browning's  humour  has  taken 
is  in  the  purposed  grotesqueness  of  his  rhymes,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  suppsse  that  some  of  his  verses  could  have 
been  written  widKHtt  some  sense  on  the  part  of  ^bax  au- 
thor of  their  extraordinary  ludicrousness.  What  can  one 
say  to  such  verbal  contortions  as  these:  Witanagemot 
rhyming  to  bag  'em  hot,  cub  licks  to  Republics,  vocifer- 
ence  to  sHfferkenet^  emyonv*  to  0  ^eve,  ^irito  to  wtmy 
toe  ?  Or  what  mortal  ingenuity  is  equal  to  the  task  of 
unravelling  the  meaning  which  may  possiUy  be  found  ia 
swh  a  verse  as  this? — 


8U  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


One  is  incisive,  corrosive ; 

Two  retoru.  nettled,  curt,  crepitant ; 
Unee  makes  rejoinder,  expansive,  explosive  ; 

Four  overbears  them  all,  strident  and  streptant; 
Five   .   .   .   O  Danaides,  O  Sieve  I 

Even  Browning  seems  to  have  had  some  consdous- 
ness  of  the  obscurity  of  his  enigma,  for  he  l^marks  in 
the  next  verse,  and  hb  readers  will  heartily  agree  with 
him— 

On  we  drift ;  where  looms  the  dim  port  7 

One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five  contribute  their  quota; 
Something  is  gained,  if  one  caught  but  the  import 

When  Browning  produces  verses  such  as  these,  we  can 
hardly  help  suspecting  him  of  perpetrating  an  elaborate 
joke.  Nor  can  we  discern  any  really  welcome  humour 
in  Ae  <*  acute  nonsense."  If  there  be  hiutour  it  is  after 
the  pattern  of  the  celebrated  German  Baron,  who  wished 
to  be  humorous,  and  accordingly  took  to  dancing 
on  the  dining-table.  It  is  grotesque,  eccentric,  curious, 
even  ridiculous,  but  not  humorous.  It  is  Brownii^ 
amusing  himself  with  conundrums,  and  slyly  laughing  at 
the  confusion  of  tongues  they  are  likely  to  produce 
among  the  critics,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ^pdi  <rf  im- 
becility to  which  they  will  reduce  his  friends  who  are  de- 
voted enough  to  seek  their  "  import" 

It  is  necessary  to  consider  Browning  in  these  his  most 
willful  moods  if  we  are  to  estimate  his  significance  as  a 
stylttt  in  literature.  Poetry  depends  upon  expression  £ur 
more  than  prose  ;  it  is  noble  thought  clothed  in  beautiful 
language.  It  is,  therefore,  impossible  wholly  to  disregard 
the  defects  of  style,  the  maimed  metres,  the  verbal  saner* 
saults,  the  unique  grotesqueness  of  rhyme  which  Brown- 
ing unquestkNuil^  disj^ays.   It  is  only  a  great  poet 


SIGNIFICANCE  IN  LITERATU&E  815 


who  could  have  survived  such  literary  esci^ades.  But 
having  survived  them,  in  virtue  r:  riu  )':.rnense  genius 
of  which  they  are  but  the  excres-.eace,  they  nevertheless 
reoiain  as  part  and  parcel  of  h: <vork8,  and  lave  their 
influence.  What  is  the  signifies  v\.  'f  Pfowiing,  then, 
in  a  literary  sense?  Chiefly  this — that  he  has  introduced 
into  Knglish  poetry  a  new,  strong,  fresh,  and  intensely 
masculine  style.  He  is  atranscendentalist  in  phiIos<^hy, 
but  a  realist  in  style.  No  word  is  too  common  for  him, 
no  phrase  too  hackneyed,  or  too  idiomatic,  or  too 
scholastic,  or  too  bizarre  if  it  will  carry  his  thought 
home.  Wordsworth  aim«l  at  writing  poetry  in  tite 
language  of  prose,  but  Browning  has  ventured  further, 
and  has  used  vernacular  prose.  He  makes  his  men  and 
women  speak  as  they  would  have  spoken  if  alive.  In  this 
respect  Browning  is  in  line  with  the  development  of  his  age. 
We  are  becoiring  less  idea'-stic  and  more  realistic  every 
day.  The  modern  imagination  is  less  concerned  with  the 
bright  dreams  of  old  chivalry  than  the  present  mysteries 
of  sad  humanity'.  It  fin(b  suffident  food  tot  sorrow, 
wonder,  faith,  and  passion  in  the  things  of  the  day.  It 
fixes  its  piercing  gaze  on  man  rather  than  on  Nature, 
knowing  that  he  is  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows 
building  in  the  summer  eaves,  or  many  Ufies  whttaiing 
happy  hillsides  in  the  spring.  Browning  is  the  interpreter 
of  all  that  is  highest,  noblest,  and  most  n-oral  in  this 
realism  of  to^y.  His  style  is  a  protest  against  euphem- 
ism, as  his  poetry  is  a  plea  for  reaUsm.  H»  s^ificance 
as  a  man  of  letters  is  that  he  has  enlarged  the  possibilities 
of  English  poetry  by  adding  to  it  a  bold,  nervous, 
masculine  vocabulary,  and  by  wing  it  as  it  was  never 
used  before,  save  by  Shakespeare  himsdf,  for  tiie  Kild|jrsil 
and  portrayal  of  human  character  and  motive. 


316  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


But  the  moral  significance  of  Browning  in  literature 
entirely  eclipses  the  literary.  Browning's  liten^ry  method 
must  have  its  effect  upon  the  future  of  English  poetry, 
and  effect  wtU  be  in  tiie  direction  of  a  less  trammelled 
and  ornate,  a  freer  and  more  realistic,  use  of  words.  But 
where  one  reader  catches  some  new  inspiration  from  his 
method,  a  thousand  will  feel  the  overwhelming  current 
of  moral  force  which  he  has  created  Here  is  a  man 
who  has  tradced  Nature  home  to  her 

Inmost  room. 
With  lens  and  scalpel ; 

who  has  been  animated  by  vivid  and  potent  interest  in 
every  form  of  human  life,  every  mystery  <^  human  con- 
duct; who  has  sought  knowledge  of  man,  alike  in  the 
splendid  chambers  where  kings  live  delicately  and  in  the 
deserts  where  great  spirits  nerve  themselves  to  strenuous 
heroism ;  in  the  study  of  the  artist,  the  oi^[an-loft  of  the 
musician,  the  garret  of  the  toiler,  the  warren  of  the  out- 
cast, the  tents  of  great  soldiers,  and  the  cells  of  great 
mystics ;  among  the  flower-like  purities  of  little  children, 
the  shrewd  scfaemings  of  characters  half  sordid  and  half 
lofty,  the  soiled  grandeurs  of  great  spirits  overthrown, 
the  shameful  secrets  of  souls  plunged  deep  in  infamies— 
who  has,  in  fact,  acknowledged  no  height  too  high  and 
no  dqptfa  too  low  for  the  demand  of  hte  nMe  cutumty. 
And  at  what  result  has  he  arrived?  He  hint^  Jm 
told  us — 

I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation  :  I  saw  and  I  spoke : 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in  my  brain 
And  pnBoimeed  OB  tlw  icit  of  Hit  liaadwori(--i«tiiratd  ite 
■fsia 

Hb  creatkm't  ^iproval  or  ctaHue ;  I  ipoiBi  m  I  mm, 

I  iq^  as  a  OMB  nay  OB  God's  woric^'s  kvo,  |«l  att's  law. 


SIGNIFICANCE  IN  LTTEBATUBIS  817 

He  alone  of  our  great  latter-day  poets  has  perfmtned 
this  great  pilgrimage  of  inquiry,  and  has  returned  with 
absolute  and  happy  assurances  u.  hope.  He  has  de- 
scemfed,  like  anodier  Dante,  tiirough  all  the  dreadful 
circles  of  flame  and  darkness,  amid  the  woe  and  travail 
of  mankind,  but  has  never  lost  his  vision  of  God's 
immortal  love  and  tenderness.  Where  others  have  been 
overwhelmed,  their  voices  reaching  us  from  the  thick 
blackness  only  in  wild  cries  of  angunh,  rage,  s<»Tow,  and 
despair,  he  has  stood  firm,  and  has  sung  out  of  the  deeps 
a  song  of  limitless  faith.  He  has  passed  out  of  the 
Purgatory  and  Inferno  into  the  Paradise.  Is  there  any 
other  of  our  great  poets  of  whom  so  much  can  be 
affirmed?  Was  not  one  of  the  latest  bequests  of  the 
most  melodious,  famous,  and  successful  poet  of  our  time 
a  bequest  of  bitterness  and  despair?*  But  wh'nv  Ten- 
nyson found  food  for  hopelessness.  Browning  tound  the 
seed,  if  not  the  fruit,  of  hope ;  where  the  one  has  been 
overwhelmed,  the  other  has  triumphed.  Browning  did 
not  cast  away  fiUtib  because  creeds  are  confused;  nor 
expectation  for  his  race  because  the  ha|^[ard  human  army 
has  been  defeated  oft  and  again  in  its  onward  march; 
nor  patriotic  hope  because  great  movements  and  great 
reSarms  have  failed,  or  seemed  to  foil  to  our  boiuuted 
human  vision.  He  teaches  that  each  good  deed  dmie 
dies  perhaps,  but  afterwards  revives,  and  goes  on  to  WOfk 
endless  blessing  in  the  world.    He  believes  that 

To  only  have  conceived, 
Planned  your  great  works,  apart 
Surpastes  little  rfoikt  achieved. 

O.  aevcritar 
Wasloat  hmlmtit  roteafuri 


81    THE  MAKERS  OP  ENGLISH  POETEY 

And,  believing  thus,  his  voice  rings  out  like  a  darion- 

blast  of  course  across  the  blank  misgivings  and  con- 
fusions of  our  time,  and  it  may  be  said  of  him  as  it  was 
of  CromweU, "  He  was  a  strong  nnan  in  the  dark  perils 
of  war,  and  in  the  high  places  of  the  field  hope  shone  in 
him  lil a  pillar  of  fire,  when  it  had  gone  out  in  others." 

The  significance  of  Browning  in  literature  is,  then,  that 
he  is  a  strong,  resolute,  believing  teacher,  who,  amid  the 
sick  contentions  of  a  doubting  generation,  has  bated  no 
jot  of  heart  or  hope.    He  has  had  the  courage  of  his 
originality  in  creating  his  own  style— a  style  which,  for 
reasons  akeady  indicated,  sometimes  becomes  obscure  and 
not  seldom  is  eccentric,  but  which  is,  nevertheless,  wonder- 
fully strong,  nervous,  and  powerful,  possessed  of  a  vast 
vocabulary,  idiomatic,  free,  resonant,  and  striKing.  He 
has  had  the  courage  of  individuality  also  m  resisting  the 
Agnostic  tendencies  of  his  time,  and  amid  the  dismayed 
and  doubtful  has  consistently  delivered  a  testimony  of 
hope.    When  the  arrears  of  fame  are  paid,  and  the  debts 
of  praise  are  liquidated,  as  they  wiU  be  in  the  just  hands 
of  Time,  this  and  every  succeeding  generation  will  surely 
be  acknowledged  under  heavy  obligations  to  Robert 
Browning.   The  songs  of  mere  loveliness  charm  us  for  a 
while,  but  it  is  the  outpourings  and  upsoarings  of  the 
strong  men  of  humanity  which  become  the  real  marching 
songs  of  the  race  in  the  long  run.   What  Browning  has 
missed  in  melody  he  has  gained  in  thought,  and  if  he  be 
deficient  in  form  he  possesses  a  far  nobler  rffidency— ^ 
iupifatioii  and  niMal  power  o(  the  noUe  thinker. 


XXX 

ROBERT  BROWNING— CONCLUDING 
SURVEY 

THE  prevalent  impression  which  tihe  woric  of 
Browning  leaves  upon  the  reader  is  twofold: 
he  makes  us  feel  the  greatness  of  his  mind,  and 
tlte  intensity  and  breadth  of  his  sympathies.   It  is  a  vast 
world  of  bought  to  which  Browning  intitKluces  his 
reader.    He  claims  from  him  absolute  attention,  the 
entire  absorption  of  the  neophyte,  whose  whole  moral 
earnestness  is  given  to  his  task.   Like  all  neophytes  we 
have  to  submit  to  a  process  of  initiation.   In  the  world 
of  Browning's  thought  there  is  much  that  is  strange, 
much  that  is  new,  much  that  is  grotesque.    There  is  no 
problem  of  h'fe  that  he  does  not  attempt  to  solve,  no  mys- 
tery of  life  that  he  is  not  ready  to  explain  or  reconcfle. 
He  insists  that  we  take  him  seriously,  for  he  himself  is 
profoundly  serious  and  earnest.    He  is  not  a  singer,  but 
a  seer.   In  every  line  tiiat  he  has  written  there  is  the 
vigorous  movement  of  a  strong  and  eager  intellect.  If 
his  reader  is  incapable  of  sustained  thought,  or  too  in- 
dolent to  rise  into  something  like  intensity  of  attention, 
then  Browning  has  nothing  to  say  to  him.   He  demands 
our  faith  in  him  as  a  niarterteadier ;  he  win  work  no 
miracle  for  him  who  has  no  belief.   Sometimes  this  sense 
of  the  power  of  mind  in  Browning  is  almost  oppressive. 
We  long  for  a  Uttie  rest  in  the  arduous  novitiate  he  im- 
poses on  us.  We  feel  that  the  vdiide  he  uses  for  tte 

Hi 


8S0  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETEY 

exposition  of  his  thought  is  unequ-i  to  the  vast  strain  he 
imposes  on  it  The  verse  moves  stiffly  beneath  the  tre- 
mendous weight  of  thought.  The  forms  of  poetry  seem 
to  cramp  and  fetter  him.  We  feel  that  an  occasional 
lapse  into  the  loose  and  Uberated  style  of  Whitman's 
rhapsodies  would  be  of  equal  service  to  Browning  and 
ourselves.  No  poet  has  ever  so  tired  the  minds  of  his 
readers.  If  Browning  had  possessed  a  less  subtle  and 
powerful  intellect,  if  he  had  held  a  narrower  view  of  life, 
he  would  have  written  with  infinitely  greater  ease,  and 
would  have  doubled  and  quadrupled  his  popularity. 

But  the  compensating  gain  of  this  breadtii  of  view  is  a 
«wresponding  breadth  of  sympathy.   There  is  a  perfectly 
unique  catholicity  in  his  affinities.    Life  in  its  shame  as 
well  as  its  splendour,  life  in  its  baseness,  its  distorted 
aims,  its  tragic  failures,  its  limitless  follies,  is  still  life  to 
him,  and  is  worthy  of  his  compassionate  scrutiny.  His 
unconventionality  is  startling  to  ordinary  readers ;  they 
never  know  where  to  find  Browning,  or  can  anticipate 
what  he  will  say  or  teach.  Thus,  4ven  for  flie  Jew  in 
the  Roman  Ghetto  he  has  a  good  word.   He  interprets 
what  may  be  the  unspoken  thought  in  the  heart  of  many 
a  Hebrew  outcast.   The  Jew  has  slain  Christ,  and  so  has 
missed  the  one  vast  opportunity  of  Jewish  history :  but 
is  there  no  excuse  ?  Is  there  no  room  for  pity  or  apology  ? 
This  is  what  Browning  makes  the  Jew  in  the  Ghetto 
think  and  say— and  no  better  example  of  the  unconven- 
tional breadth  of  his  sympathies  could  be  ftnmd  :— 

Thou  I  if  Thou  wast  He,  who  at  mid-watch  caiM 

By  the  starlight,  naming  a  dubious  Name  I 

And  if,  too  heavy  with  sleep,  too  rash 

With  fear,  O  ThOu,  if  that  martyr  gash 

Fell  on  Thee  coming  to  take  Thine  own. 

And  we  gave  Uw  "^iom.  wbui  we  owed  tfw  Thnas— 


r 


CONCLUDING  SURVEY  8S1 


Thou  art  the  Judge !   We  are  bruised  thus, 
But,  the  judgment  over,  join  sides  with  us  I 
Thine  too  is  the  cause !  and  not  more  Thine 
Than  ours,  is  the  work  of  these  dogs  and  swine* 
Whose  life  laqght  throug'..,  and  spitt  at  their  creed. 
Who  maiiMaia  Titee  in  weed,  nad  defy  Thee  in  dMdl 

The  poet  whose  sjmipathies  illtunuie  tiie  foul  darkmw 

of  the  Ghetto  and  the  Morgue  may  well  be  a  stone  of 
stumbling  and  rock  of  ofience  to  the  ^rplw  and  con- 
ventional reader. 

Force,  fidtii,  and  tiiought,  the  vigotir  ot  a  strong  in- 
tellect, the  vitality  of  a  victorious  faith,  the  subtlety  and 
logic  of  an  acute  insight,  are,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
dominating  qualities  in  Browning's  poetry.  In  so  much 
ail  criticism  must  agree ;  and  M.  Taine,the  famous  French 
critic,  has  acknowledged,  not  only  that  England  is  far 
ahead  of  France  in  the  greatness  of  her  poets,  but  that 

Browning  stands  first  among  modern  English  poets  the 

most  excellent  where  excellence  is  greatness,  the  most 
gifted  where  genius  is  a  common  dower.  When,  hoir- 
ever,  we  come  to  particularize  certain  poems  as  the 
greatest  in  the  qualities  of  genius,  probably  opinions 
will  differ.  Altar  aU,  tiiere  is  no  sudk  thing  as  systematic 
or  judicial  criticism,  and  the  efforts  of  such  criticism  to 
systematize  itself  have  uniformly  failed,  and  deservedly. 
Shakespeare  defies  the  unities  of  the  drama,  and  is  great 
in  s[Mte  of  them,  because  he  is  the  creator  of  a  richer 
unity,  which  is  based  on  the  exposition  of  a  ridMT  aiul 
more  complex  life.  Genius  perpetually  fashions  new 
moulds  for  itself,  and  the  history  of  criticism  is  in  great 
part  a  list  of  dOeata  suflfered  by  the  critics  at  the  hmdi 
of  genius.  Criticism  ascertains  qualities  and  describes 
them    The  critic  is  an  exgioret  who  goes  first  with  the 


899  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETEY 

lighted  torch  into  the  stalactite  chamber  roofed  with 
gems,  and  in  his  most  beneficent  function  only  calls  the 
public  to  admire  that  which  he  has  illumined,  but  not 
created.  His  special  preference  for  this  or  that  particular 
form  of  beauty  is,  after  aU,  his  own  ai&ir,  and  is  dictated 
by  personal  taste.  An  agreeable  man,  according  to  Lord 
Beaconsfield,  was  one  who  agreed  with  him;  the  poem  a 
critic  calls  the  best  is  simply  the  one  that  agrees  best  with 
him.  vv'hen,  therefore,  I  state  the  work  of  Browning's 
which  seems  finest,  noblest,  weightiest  in  quality,  I  simply 
specify  that  which  seems  so  to  me,  and  can  claim  only 
the  prerogative  of  a  personal  prefereace. 

Lwd  Jeflfrqr,  in  almost  the  only  well-known  passage  of 
his  writings,  has  moralized  on  the  perishable  fame  of 
poets,  and  has  mournfully  recounted  how  little  of  work 
famous  in  its  day  contrives  ultimately  to  escape  the  de- 
vouring maw  of  oblivion.   Lovelace  lives  by  a  single 
stanza,  Wolfe  by  a  single  poem,  and  Jeffrey  was  probably 
too  generous  when  he  pictured  posterity  receiving  witii 
rapture  the  half  of  Campbell,  the  fourtii  of  Byron,  ^ 
sixth  of  Scott,  the  scattered  tithes  of  Crabbe,  and  the 
three  per  cent,  of  Southey.    The  best  way  of  sifting  the 
perfect  from  the  imperfect  in  Browning's  work  wouM 
be  to  ask  what  we  should  care  least  to  lose,  and  what  we 
wouM  most  willingly  forget.    If  we  had  to  submit  to  an 
ideal  justice  for  the  final  jurisdiction  of  immortality  the 
poems  most  likely  to  win  him  the  award  of  age-long  fame, 
which  should  we  choose  to  support  the  claim  ? 

When  we  apply  this  test  to  Browning's  poetry  the  re- 
sult is  soon  reached.  First  of  all  stands  the  Rinr  .nd the 
Book.  In  force  of  conception,  skill  and  delicacy  of  treat- 
ment, subtlety  of  thought,  purity,  power,  and  passion,  the 
iUi^MM^Ifo       is  Browning's  oMMleri^ece.  Wandflr* 


CONCLUDING  SUBVEY 

ing  .1  Florence,  Browning  discovers  on  a  bookstall  an  old 
manuscript  volume  containing  the  pleadings  of  a  murder- 
trial  at  Rome  in  1698.   The  whole  case  is  one  of  those 
Strang^  tangles  <rf  evidence  which  dull  people  usually  <ys- 
credit  until  the  passions  of  human  life  flame  forth,  and  die 
thing  is  a  dramatic  actuality,  done  before  their  very  eyes. 
The  murdered  woman  is  Pompilia,  who  has  fled  from  her 
husband  with  the  priest  Caponsacchi ;  the  murderer  the 
husband.    At  first  sight  this  appears  merely  a  low  drama 
of  vicious  passion  and  brutal  revenge  ;  but  as  Browning 
pores  over  the  pleadings  and  unravels  the  tangled  skein  of 
evidence  it  reveals  itself  in  a  very  different  way.  As  he 
reads,  the  dark  shadows  of  crime  recede,  reveaUng  in 
transfiguring  brightness  the  figure  of  Pompilia,  "  young, 
good,  beautiful,"  clothed  upon  with  the  raiment  which  is 
from  heaven,  the  beauty  of  holineas,  the  Irvine  dignity 
of  goodness,  the  touching,  inimitable  freshness  and  purity 
of  childlike  innocence.   A  mere  child  in  years,  slie  is  the 
spoil  of  her  husband's  avarice,  then  the  victim  of  his  malig- 
nity and  disappointed  cupidity,  until  at  last  she  flies,  to 
save  her  babe's  life,  with  the  young  priest  who  has  prom- 
ised  to  defend  her.   Browning's  method  is  to  let  each 
witness  tell  his  own  tale,  making  the  written  report  his 
basis  of  fact,  on  which  he  casts  his  own  quick,  penetrat- 
ing light  of  interpretation.    This  is  accomplished  in  twelve 
books.   The  one-half  of  Rome  gives  its  opinion,  takes 
merdy  tiie  outward  appearance  of  the  facts,  and  judges 
Guido  justified  in  the  murder.   The  otiier  half  <a  Rome 
accepts  Pompilia's  innocence,  and  perceives  that  from  first 
to  last  she  has  been  &  victim.   Then  follow  the  chief 
actws  m  the  drama.  Guido  makes  his  defence— the  de- 
fence of  a  man  thoroughly  shrewd,  with  mmredtanatouch 
of  fanaticism,  alive  to  his  position,  and  alert  to  use  every 


884  THE  MAKEBB  OF  ENGUBH  FOETBY 


waft  of  popuhr  pwjudlee  in  hit  fcvour.    After  him 

Caponsacchi  teUs  his  tale;  how  he  came  to  enter  the 
Church,  and  was  urged  by  great  priests  to  put  only  an 
easy  interpretotion  on  the  vows  whidi  seemed  to  him  so 
strenuously  solemn ;  how  he  came  to  recognize  in  Pompilia 
a  womanhood  he  had  never  before  imagined— so  sadly 
sweet,  so  grave,  so  pure,  that  he  felt  lifted  into  highor 
thoughts  as  by  the  vision  of  a  saint ;  how  God  and  Pom- 
pilia kept  company  in  his  thoughts,  so  that  when  the  hour 
came  that  he  could  serve  her  he  seized  it  with  a  simple 
chivalry,  and  did  it  as  God's  plain  duty,  then  and  there 
made  clear  to  him.   Then  Pompilia  herself,  dying  fast,  in 
broken  snatches  tells  the  story  of  her  life.   Finally,  the  old 
Pope  sums  up  the  case,  giving  verdict  of  death  against 
Guido,  and  Gur     amself  pours  out  his  last  despairing 
utterances,  whicn  reach  their  tragic  climax  in  tiie  cry  to 
his  murdoed  wife  to  save  him,  thus  unconsciously  wit- 
nesring  to  tiie  purity  he  had  defamed  and  despised — 

Abate— Carf'-nal— Christ— Maria— God— 
Ftapilia,  T'':'  you  let  them  murder  me  I 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  there  is  nothing  like  this 
in  English  poetry,  and  for  certain  parts  of  it  we  may  claim 
that  there  is  nothing  since  Shakespeare  to  surpass  it  Tl» 
form  is  unique— oi»  which  Shakespeare  would  not  have 
used— but,  cumbrous  as  it  is,  it  exactly  suits  Browning. 
The  Ring  and  the  Book  is  the  work  of  a  giant  We  could 
spare,  perhaps,  the  pleadings  of  the  advocates  and  the 
opinions  of  Rome,  but  the  speeches  of  the  great  actors  in 
the  drama  have  the  mintage  of  immortality  upon  them. 
Shakespeare  himself  has  given  us  no  more  exquisite 
creation  of  womanhood  made  lovely  by  rimplicity  and 
purity  than  Pompilia.  She  has  grown  like  "  an  angd- 


CONCLUDING  SURVEY 


825 


watered  lily  "  born  in  polluted  soil,  but  onb'  the  sweetness 
and  the  light  have  bven  gathered  up  into  her  being,  and 
the  sin  of  others  to  left  no  smird)  on  her.  The  spcnkd 
and  blackened  life  of  Guido  only  serves  the  better  to  Ml 
forth  the  grace  and  dignity  of  her  purity.  Whenever  any 
of  the  speakers  mention  Pompilia,  a  hush  of  reverence 
seems  to  bUs  upon  their  words,  and  even  Guido,  at  the 
last,  turns  to  her  in  his  extremity,  as  to  a  guardian  saint, 
for  help.  It  is  impossible  to  read  her  own  story  of  her 
life  without  tean>.  Her  memories  of  early  childhood, 
ever  shadowed  with  the  mysterious  sense  (tf  God ;  her  sad 
married  life,  with  its  silent  forgiveness  of  hateful  wrongs ; 
the  most  pathetic  tenderness  with  which  she  describes  the 
rapture  of  her  motherhood ;  the  joy  she  had  in  her  babe 
—how  the  seema  now  like  that  poor  Viigin  she  often 
pitied  as  adiiU, 

At  our  street-comer  in  a  lonely  niche, 
The  bibe  that  sat  upon  her  knees  broke  off; 

her  sad  hope  that  people  will  teach  her  babe  to  think  well 
of  her  when  she  is  dead ;  her  acknowledgment  of  that 
sense  within  her  whidi  makes  her  know  that  she  kwcs 
Oqponsacchi  indeed,  but  with  that  spiritual  love  only 
which  Christ  'oreshadowed  as  the  joy  of  that  world  where 
they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage;  and  al- 
ways that  deqs  abMtng  tiuuikfahieas  to  God  that  for  a  f<»t- 
ni^t  He  has  tet  her  have  ho-  babe  to  kive. 

In  a  life  like  mine 
A  fortnight  filled  with  bliss  it  long  and  much : 
I  never  realised  Qpd's  birdi  befcw. 
How  HegnwUkestGodiabeiiif  bani,-> 

all  this  forms  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  pathetic 
creations  which  English  poetry  has  ever  produced.  And 


8i6  THE  MAKBBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


not  less  pathetic  is  Caponsacchi's  account  of  his  long  ride 
to  Rome  with  Pompilia,  and  her  simple  wonder  at  a 
kindness  in  him  to  which  she  was  all  untiied : — 

She  utd— a  long  while  later  in  the  day, 
When  I  bad  let  the  ulence  be— abrupt  — 

Have  yoB  a  mother  ?       She  died,  I  was  bom." 
"  A  aliter,  then  t "  No  afaler."— •  •  Who  was  k — 

What  woman  were  you  used  to  serve  this  way, 
Be  kind  to,  till  1  called  you  and  you  came?" 

And  in  the  whole  realm  of  English  poetry  it  would  be 
hard  to  match  for  intensity  and  passion  Ae  concluding 
passage  (rf  Caponsacchi's  address  to  the  judges,  in  which 
he  pictures  Guido,  not  so  much  dying  as  "  sliding  out  of 
life,"  "  parted  by  the  general  horror  and  common  hate 
from  all  honest  forms  of  life,"  until  upon  cfcatton's  verge 
he  meets  one  other  like  himself, 

Jiidas,  aade  awmroas  tqr  mach  soUtn^  , 
and  there  teaching  and  bearing  malice  and  all  detestabil- 
ity,  indissolubly  bound,  the  two  are  linked  in  a  frightful 
fdlowship  of  evil, 

In  their  one  spot  out  of  the  ken  of  God, 
Or  can  of  man  forever  and  ••ciUMiOa 

The  i&V  and  the  Book  is  the  m<Kt  astonishing  work 
of  genius  of  our  time,  and  if  the  narratioas  of  Guido, 
Caponsacchi,  and  Pompilia  do  not  escape  oblivion,  it  is 
hard  to  say  what  other  poetry  of  our  day  is  likefy  to  en- 
dure and  win  the  suffrages  of  posterity. 

Another  poem  which  it  is  impossible  to  omit  in  this 
category  of  Browning's  greatest  works  is,  Paracelsus.  It 
may  well  take  rank  <  ith  the  Ring  and  the  Book  in  no- 
bility of  design  and  expression ;  but  perhaps  the  most 
wonderful  thing  about  it  is  the  visicm     evolution  which 


CONCLUDING  SURVEY 


is  found  ia  its  concluding  pagesi — pagei»  let  it  be  noted, 
which  were  written  many  yean  bdbve  Oarwia  had  pub- 
lished his  Origin  of  S/feus.  Let  him  who  would  meas- 
ure accurately  the  immense  sweep  and  power  of  Brown- 
ing's genius  turn  to  the  last  fifty  pages  of  Paracilsus. 
They  contain  passages  which  cawioC  be  read,  even  after 
many  readings,  without  astonishment.  Never  has  blank 
verse  been  handled  with  fuller  mastery ;  never  has  it  been 
sustained  at  a  greater  height  of  majesty,  even  by  Milton, 
the  greatest  of  all  mastets  in  blank  vene.  Wlnt  huge- 
ness of  utterance,  and  what  a  picture  of  God's  creative 
joy,  and  of  the  earth's  re-birth  in  spri^  ia  there  ki  Unci 
like  these: 

In  the  solitary  waste  strange  groups 
Of  young  volcanos  conte  up,  cycIops-^M, 
Staring  together  with  their  eyes  on  flame  — 
God  tutes  a  pleasure  in  th^r  uncouth  pri^. 
Then  all  is  still ;  earth  is  a  wintry  clod  : 
But  ipring-wind,  like  a  dancing  psaltreas,  puw 
Omitsbtcastto  waken  it :  laie  vstta* 
Itodls  ftm^lftriy  t^poo  ioQ|^&  bftBits* 

The  laric 

Soars  up  and  up,  shivering  for  very  joy ; 
Afar  the  ocean  sle^ .  white  fishing-fidls 
Flit  where  the  strand  it  purple  wMi  its  tribe 
Of  nested  limpets ;  savage  creatures  stek 
Their  loves  in  wood  and  plain,  and  God  renews 
His  ucieM  iq^K. 

And  then  follows  that  vieion  of  tl»  tme  VKAat&im,  wirich 
it  is  a  shame  to  quote  piecemeal,  but  of  wldA  wtm 
»x  ast  must  be  quoted  here : 

*  Thus  God  dwells  in  all, 
Fran  fife's  nrinMe  bcglnnlBgi,  op  at  test 

To  man,  the  consummation  of  this  schenw 
Of  being,  the  comfdetion  of  this  sphere 


828   THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

Of  life,  whose  attributes  had  here  and  then 
Been  scattered  o'er  the  visible  world  befim. 
Asking  to  be  combined,  dim  fragments  meant 
To  be  united  in  some  wondrous  whole. 
Imperfect  qualities  thnwghottt  creatlm 
Suggesting  some  one  creature  yet  to  make. 
Some  point  where  all  these  scattered  rays  shall  met 
CoBvciieirt  in  die  fscnWct  of  man. 

Progresiit 

The  law  of  life :  man  is  not  man  as  yet, 
Nor  shall  I  deem  his  general  object  served 
While  only  here  and  there  a  towering  mind 
O'erlooks  his  prostrate  fellows :  when  die  hott 
Is  out  at  once  to  the  despair  of  night ; 
When  all  mankind  alike  is  perfected, 
Equal  in  fnlMriown  powcfs— then,  not  tin  ditii* 
I  say  begins  man's  general  infiuacy. 

And  it  is  more  than  evolution  in  the  limited  scientific 
sense  which  meets  us  here.  The  youth  whose  earliest 
confession  is  titat  God  has  always  been  his  lode-star  can 
conceive  of  no  evohitioii  which  does  not  both  begin  and 
end  in  God: 

In  completed  man  begins  anew 
A  tendency  to  God.  Prognostics  told 
Man's  near  approach ;  so  in  man's  self  arise 
August  anticipations,  symbols,  types 
Of  a  dim  splendour  ever  on  before 
In  that  eternal  circle  life  pursues. 

Paracelsus  is  a  great  poem,  one  of  the  greatest  in  English 
literature ;  and  when  we  read  it  we  cannot  wcMider  tiiat 
one  of  the  first  organs  of  literary  opinion  in  England 
does  not  hesitate  to  set  Browning  close  beside  Shake- 
speare. Browning  has  written  as  grandly  in  other  poems, 
but  nowhere  has  he  so  fully  expressed  tike  scientific  qnrit 
of  the  time,  or  wiitfeen  with  oompleler  power  of  ^dcm^ 


CONCLUDING  SURVEY 


829 


In  sustained  splendour  of  thought  and  imagery,  but 
upon  a  lesser  scale,  Saul  is  also  one  of  the  poems  which 
men  will  wA  rea^  let  die ;  and  one  m^t  dass  with 
Saul  such  wonderful  studies  as  A  Death  in  the  Desert  and 
the  Epistle  of  Karshish.    In  Saul  Browning  has  attained 
the  rare  adiievement  of  perfect  form  and  harmony.  There 
is  a  magnificent  music  in  tlw  billowy  cadences  of  Siw//  it 
seems  to  rise  and  fall  not  so  much  to  the  harp  of  David  as 
to  the  melodious  thunder  and  trumpet-calls  of  some  great 
organ  which  floods  the  universe  with  invisible  delight. 
But  such  poems  as  tiicse  owe  dieir  trae  greatness  to  the 
thought  which  informs  them.   There  is  no  writer  of  our 
day,  whether  of  prose  or  poetry,  who  will  so  well  repay 
the  attention  of  the  theological  student  as  Browning.  He 
has  so  vivid  a  vision  tA  invisiUe  things,  so  hitease  a  grasp 
on  spiritual  facts,  that  he  pierces  into  the  heart  of  relig- 
ious mystery  as  no  other  man  of  our  time  has  done,  and 
it  is  impossible  to  rise  from  a  course  of  Browning  with- 
out a  sense  of  added  or  invigoorated  fiutii.  Hie  Kt^n^i^turff 
of  Christian  evidence  has  received,  in  our  time,  no  moce 
important  contributions  than  Easter  Day  and  Christmas^ 
the  Death  in  the  Desert  and  the  Epistle  of  Karshish. 
The  method  is  Browning's  own,  but  it  b  used  witii  coa> 
summate  skill  and  effect ;  it  is  a  sword  which  no  other 
man  can  wield  save  the  craftsman  who  forged  it,  but  in 
his  hand  it  pierces  to  the  dividing  asunder  of  the  bone 
and  marrow  of  current  scqptidsm.  As  poet  aad  linker 
Browning  secures  a  double  advantage,  and  annexes  realms 
to  his  dominion  which  are  not  often  brought  under  the 
sway  of  a  common  sceptre.   The  fashion  of  the  world 
may  change,  and  the  old  doubts  aaay  wear  tiiemsdves 
out  and  sink  like  shadows  out  of  sight  in  the  morning  of 
a  stronger  faith ;  but  even  so  the  world  will  still  turn  to  the 


830  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


finer  poems  of  Browning  for  intellectual  stimulus,  for  the 
purification  of  pity  and  of  pathos,  for  the  exaltation  of 
hope,  and  will  reva«  him  who  in  the  night  of  the  world'* 
doubt,  still  sang: 

This  moM't  no  blot  far  at. 

Nor  blank,— it  means  intensely  and  means  good. 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

Or,  if  the  darkness  still  thickens,  all  the  more  will  men 
turn  to  this  strong  man  of  the  race,  who  has  wrestled  and 
prevailed ;  who  has  fllumtned  wi&  imaginative  insight  the 
deepest  problems  of  the  ages ;  who  has  made  his  poetry 
not  merely  the  vehicle  '^f  pathos,  passion,  tenderness, 
fancy,  and  imagination,  but  also  of  the  most  robust  and 
masculine  tiiought  He  has  writtm  ^cs  whidi  must 
diarm  all  who  love,  epics  which  must  move  all  who  act, 
soi^ES  which  must  cheer  all  who  nuflfer,  poems  which  must 
ftsdnate  all  who  think ;  and  wher  "  Time  hath  sundered 
didl  from  pearl,"  however  stem  may  be  the  scrutiny,  it 
may  be  safely  said  that  there  will-  remain  enough  of 
Robert  Browning  to  give  him  rank  among  the  greatest 
of  poets,  and  secure  for  him  the  sure  reward  of  fame. 

So  I  dose  what  I  have  to  say  of  Browning.  It  would 
be  unseemly  to  detail  what  has  been  sufficiently  evident 
to  the  reader— the  deep  indebtedness  which  I  personally 
feel  to  Browning  for  the  illumination  and  delight  he  h«i 
afforded  me.  But  the  object  of  these  studies  would  axA 
be  achieved  if  I  did  not  express  the  hope  that  some,  to 
whom  Browning  is  a  name  and  a  shadow  only,  may  be 
led  to  turn  from  these  imperfect  criticisms  to  the  study  o( 
tiie  num  himsdf.  To  Browning's  work  I  naay  ^>ply, 
without  conscious  impertinence,  the  noble  words  spoken 
of  the  ApoUo  Belvidere:  "  Go  and  study  it;  and  if  you 


CONCLUDING  SURVEY  m 


see  nothing  to  captivate  you,  {o again;  go  until  you  fkuA 
it,  for  be  assured  it  is  there." 

Leas  fortunate  than  Tennyson  in  his  life,  so  fiur  as  tiie 
recognition  of  his  gadus  and  the  awards  of  fame  are  con- 
cerned, Browning  was  equally  fortunate  in  his  death.  He 
retained  to  the  last  his  genial  faith,  his  resolute  optimism, 
his  intdkctual  vigour  and  subtlety.  The  bat  poem  of  his 
last  volume  is  a  sort  of  summing  up  himself  and  his 
life-work :  nor  could  a  more  discerning  summaty  be  found 
than  in  the  words. 

One  who  never  turned  his  back,  but  marched  breast  Cnrward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  tareak. 
Never  dreamed,  dioqgb         wen  wonted,  wfoog  woold 

triumph, 

IMd  w«  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  light  bettor. 
Sleep  to  wake. 

Upon  the  announcement  of  his  death  the  press  was 
flooded  with  reminiscences  from  many  who  had  known 
him  digh%  and  more  who  had  known  him  well,  but  all 
alike  testifying  to  his  simplicity,  veracity,  and  kindliness 
of  nature,  and  not  less  to  the  vigour  of  his  mind  and  the 
breadth  of  his  human  and  religious  sympathies.  "  Never 
say  of  me  tiiat  I  am  dead"  was  one  of  his  last  recorded 
observations  to  a  friend,  and  it  was  eminently  character- 
istic of  the  man  and  his  philosophy.  He  died  with  the 
knowledge  that  his  last  book  was  a  triumphant  success ; 
and  his  nation  hy  common  acclamation  rewarded  his  life- 
work  with  the  highest  honour  it  can  accord  to  its  illus- 
trious dead, — a  grave  in  that  great  Abbey  which  is  the 
Campo  Santo  of  English  genius.  The  greatest  men  of 
ha  goiaation  by  their  presence  and  by  their  pens  eagerly 
paid  their  tribute  of  honour  to  his  genius,  and  it  is  stfll 
more  toudiiag  to  racotd  that  as  his  coffin  ww  oniid 


382  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


through  the  streets  of  London  many  of  his  more  obscure 
disciples  lined  the  streets,  and  cast  upon  it  flowers  and 
leaves  of  laurd.  He  was  buried  on  tiie  last  day  of  the 
year  1889,  and,  to  apply  the  words  which  Ruskin  has 
written  on  the  death  of  Turner,  we  may  say  that  perhaps 
in  the  far  future  the  year  1889  will  "  be  remembered  less 
for  what  it  has  displayed  than  forwhat  ithaswiUidmini'* 
in  Robert  Browoiiig. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Btm  in  Lalehsm,  December  34, 1822.  The  Strayed  Reveller^ 
his  first  fum,  fubUshti  iu  1848.  Eleeted  Prefesstr  Peetrj  at 
Oxftrd,  t8s7.  A  nUitted  editim  $f  his  poems,  in  three  vtiumes, 
fuUbhti  ii$  i89S'  OMImUHrfmltdfrtltStiUt, 


"^EW  men  of  letten  in  our  time  have  filled  a  larger 


place  in  public  attention  than  Matthew  Arndd. 


X.  During  the  greater  portion  of  his  life  he  was  in 
the  thick  of  perpetual  controversy.  He  seemed  to  live 
and  move  in  the  arena  ctf  contention,  waA  AJightrd  in  its 
keen  and  eager  atmosphere.  No  controvertialkt  hMi  a 
happier  knack  of  phrase,  a  sharper  wit,  a  surer  thrust  than 
he.  It  was  he  who  first  used  the  word  "  Philistine  "  as  a 
term  of  reproach,  a  symbol  tA  all  that  was  ins^ur  in 
politics,  vulgar  in  manners,  and  ignorant  in  art  To  Dean 
Swift's  phrase  "sweetness  and  light"  he  gave  a  new 
mean.ng  and  a  new  lease  xsH  life.  He  had  a  felicitous  art 
of  picking  out  some  expiwive  word  and  diargnig  ft  widi 
wider  meanings,  thus  making  it  the  rallying-cry  of  his 
controversial  disquisitions.  It  was  in  this  way  that  the 
words  "  lucidity  "  and  "  distinction  "  became  symbols  of  a 
literary  doctrine,  which  he  ddMit^  tmweuMd 
self-satisfaction.  No  one  less  feared  to  rrpnt  himself 
than  Arnold.  When* he  had  hit  upon  a  really  good 
phrase  used  it  Vffon  ud  again,  and  it  was  the  reitera- 
tion of  the  phrase  as  mwdi  as  its  aptness  whididkimi^ 
to  fix  it  in  the  pnUie  memory.   WHStk  Mattfww  Anwld 


888 


384  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


ai  the  essayist  most  thinking  people  have  an  adequate 
acquaintance ;  but,  after  all,  it  was  neither  in  literary  nor 
controversial  essays  that  his  true  excellence  lay.  What* 
few  r^arded  as  certain  before  his  death  has  been  generally 
admitted  since,  viz.,  that  all  the  best  qualities  of  Arnold's 
genius  are  manifested  in  his  comparatively  unknown 
poetry ;  and  that  it  is  by  his  poetry,  rather  than  his  prose, 
tiiat  he  will  claim  attention  from  the  next  generation. 

We  may  even  go  further  than  this,  and  express  a 
regret  that  Matthew  Arnold  was  ever  drawn  into  the 
conflicts  of  controversy  at  all.  That  he  was  a  delis^tfol 
controversialist  we  all  admit  The  very  sufficiency  oi 
his  egoism  is  amusing.  He  took  a  sort  of  perverse  de- 
light in  intellectual  isolation,  and  lectured  his  antagonists 
with  the  serene  positiveness  of  one  who  was  perfectly 
convinced  that  he  knew  everyHbiag  better  than  anybody 
else  knew  anything.  He  is  never  so  happily  ironical,  so 
wittily  satiric,  so  complacently  sarcastic,  as  when  he  is 
engaged  in  proving  the  general  obtuseness  of  the  public, 
and  the  bright  particular  luminousness  of  his  own  ideas. 

There  is  indeed  a  touch  of  literary  dandyism  in  all 
Arnold's  prose.  He  always  figures,  as  some  one  has 
well  said,  as  "  a  superior  person "  talking  down  to  tiie 
intellectual  incapacities  of  h»  tnfoiofs.  He  b  a  master 
of  ironical  reasoning,  and  loves  nothing  so  well  as  to 
put  his  antagonist  in  the  witness-box,  and  convict  him 
out  of  his  own  mouth.  He  never  uses  the  literary 
bludgeon:  he  ddtghts  rather  in  the  sharp  rapier-thrust, 
the  swift  retort,  the  quiet  ironical  smile  which  is  so  much 
harder  to  bear  than  the  loud,  derisive  laughter  of  a  John- 
son or  Carlyle.  And  so  for  as  distinction  of  style  can 
preserve  what  is,  after  all,  fugitive  literary  work,  Arnold's 
controversial  writtiqp  are  safe.    He  has  MiginaUtjr* 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


885 


grace,  sweetness :  a  style  of  the  utmost  lucidity  and  of 
frequent  force.   The  paragraphs  seems  to  move  witii 
such  grac^ul  ease  tint  we  begin  to  fancy  it  takes  small 
art  to  produce  them,  until  suddenly  we  perceive  the 
master  in  some  felicitous  or  stinging  phrase,  in  the  stroke 
of  wit,  or  the  quiet  ripple  of  ironical  humour.    The  very 
audacity  with  which  Arnold  quotes  himself  is  a  part  of 
his  style.   He  has  a  definite  qrstem     opinions,  a  scale 
of  assured  axioms,  and  he  returns  to  them  again  and 
again  as  to  the  fundamentals  of  his  faith.   When  he  has 
polished  to  the  last  degree  of  artistic  finish  a  definition 
or  a  phrase,  it  is  no  part  of  his  purpose  to  leave  it 
modest  retirement  till  the  discernment  of  his  reader  dis- 
covers it   He  has  so  little  faith  in  the  discernment  of 
the  puUk  that  he  emphatically  points  out  what  a  perfect 
phrase  he  has  invented,  and,  lest  it  shouki  be  forgotten, 
makes  it  the  pivot  on  which  paragraph  after  paragrai* 
revolves.   These  and  many  other  characteristics  of  his 
prose  make  it  delightful  reading,  and  redeem  the  most 
barren  themes  of  theological  controversy  with  a  casual 
grace.    But  not  the  less  Arnold  was  out  of  his  true 
sphere  in  theological  debate.   The  urbanity,  the  cool- 
ness, the  patience  of  the  accomplished  critic  of  literature 
forsake  him  when  he  enten  the  arena  t[  tiieiA)giad 
controversy.    He  becomes  as  discourteous  and  unrea- 
sonable as  the  worst  type  of  the  narrowest  bigot  usually 
succeeds  in  being  when  he  argues  for  some  immeasura- 
bly insignificant  detail  of  dogma.   That  tiie  inftieMe  of 
Arnold  on  theology  has  been  considerable  must  be 
granted,  and  his  theological  essays  have  secured  him  an 
attention  which  otherwise  he  would  not  have  gained. 
But  it  is  not,  after  all,  as  a  theologian  that  he  will  be  m- 
membered,  nor  is  it  as  an  apoatk  of  ickas»  aor  is  11 «  « 


8M  THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

critic  of  litenture.   More  or  lew  thoie  are  each  fugitiw 

forms  of  literature.  But  he  who  sums  up  something  of 
the  spirit  of  an  age  in  poetry  has  chosen  the  most  im- 
perishable mould  for  hii  thoughts  which  literature 
affords :  and  it  is  in  his  poetry  that  Arnold  best  ex- 
presses his  own  genius,  and  has  rendered  his  highest 
service  to  the  ages. 

I  have  spoken  of  Arnold  as  an  apostie  of  ideas,  by 
which  I  mean  that  he  sowed  the  minds  of  men  with 
thoughts  which  have  had  a  wide  influence  on  the  times. 
In  the  same  way,  we  may  say  of  his  poetry  that  it  is  the 
poetry  of  ideas.   He  is  a  poet  of  the  intdlect,  and  his 
force  as  a  poet  is  purely  intellectual.   He  has  no  passion, 
no  kindling  flame  of  fervour,  no  heart-force  ;  he  speaks 
from  the  mind  to  the  mind,  and  the  grace  and  beauty  of 
his  poetry  are  mainly  the  result  of  intdkctual  art  The 
graces  of  his  style  do  not  consist  in  those  sudden  in- 
tensities of  sentiment  or  emotion  which  clothe  themselves 
in  flashing  and  unforgettoble  phrases ;  they  are  the  fine 
result  of  latxmous  art   He  nevor  surprises  us ;  tyut  he 
powerfully  attracts  us,  notwithstanding,  with  the  gracious 
symmetry  and  completeness  of  his  work.    His  gift  of 
lucidity  controls  his  poetry  as  it  does  his  prose,  and  tlw 
same  observation  may  be  made  of  his  gift  (rf  restraint 
He  never  loses  himself  in  the  turbulence  of  his  own 
passion;  he  is  grave,  sad,  deeply  moved  and  deeply 
moving,  but  always  restrained.    He  is  never  obscure; 
he  says  what  he  has  to  say  witii  admirable  definiteiMSB 
and  precision  of  phrase.   Indeed,  the  definiteness  is  too 
great :  it  affects  one  at  times  like  a  fault.    It  leaves  no 
room  for  the  play  of  imagination ;  it  requires  no  sym- 
pathy of  undorstanding  from  the  reader. 
There  is  a  poetry  whkA  aflfects  us  liltt  the  ^leetade  of 


BiATTHEW  ARNOLD 


a  great  Gothic  cathedral.   We  never  really  see  a  perfect 
specimen  of  the  Gothic;  we  never  fully  exhaust  it;  we 
never  fpmp  its  wlKrfe  nwaning  and  significaaoe.   It  gives 
us  room  for  infinite  thought;  it  calls  forth  the  interpcck- 
ing  powers  of  our  own  imagination,  and  makes  them 
vigilant   We  gaze  untired  into  the  dimness  of  the  lofty 
roof,  vAmk  a  hundred  ddicate  braachlns  Unes  of  grace 
seem  to  interlace  and  meet;  we  mark  « the  height,  tiM 
space,  the  gloom,  the  glory  " ;  a  burst  of  sunlight  kindles 
"the  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires";  a  passing  cloud 
darkens  the  vaulted  aisles  with  awe-inspiring  shadows ; 
and  in  the  delicate  traceries  of  its  stonework,  the  fantastic 
carvings,  the  touches  of  inspired  art  which  everywhere 
reveal  themselves  to  the  studious  eye,  not  less  than  in 
the  grandeur  of  it  as  a  w^le,  we  find  food  for  coirtiaial 
delight,  and  revelations  of  inexhaustible  significance. 
But  there  is  no  such  mingling  of  mystery  and  beauty  in 
the  poetry  of  Arnold.    It  is  rather  like  looking  at  some 
piece  <rf"  perfect  statoary— cool,  proud,  pure ;  the  linei 
are  gracious  and  symmetrical  indeed,  but  very  definite, 
and  requiring  no  help  from  the  casual  spectator  to 
interpret  what  is  beautiful  in  them.   It  may  be  that  the 
Gothic  dd^ts  in  a  bariiarfe  Sfdencbur:  but  it  w  spten- 
dour,  it  is  the  fruit  of  a  fertile  and  fervent  imagination,  and 
irresistibly  appeals  to  the  imagination.   It  may  be  that  a 
Greek  temple,  with  its  long  lines  of  polished  columns 
and  exquteitdy  mod^ed  frieses,  is  also  beautiful :  but 
does  not  refresh  the  eye  or  stimulate  the  mind,  as  docs 
th'i  Gothic.   The  Gothic  is  the  work  of  men  who 
dreamed,  the  Grecian  of  men  who  thought.  Matthew 
Arnold  nevar  dreamed.   He  lived  a  strenuous  int^ectual 
life,  and  his  poetry  is  the  outcome  of  his  thinking.  In 
its  own  way  it  is  perfect,  but  it  is  not  with  the 


888   THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


which  most  delights  men.  For  in  poetry  as  in  art  it  is 
the  dreamers  who  fascinate  men,  who  hdd  tiiem 
bound  with  the  viiioii  of  bemity.  tad  wImm  qpdl  never 
fails,  whose  charm  never  wearies,  whose  power  of 
stimulating  the  fancy  and  refreshing  the  heart  is  broken 
by  no  change  of  time  or  transience  of  human  taste. 

From  a  Uterary  point  of  view  one  of  the  most  remailc 
able  things  about  Arnold's  poetry  is  its  classicism.  The 
rise  of  romanticism  which  so  powerfully  affected  Tenny- 
son, and  which  found  its  fullest  expression  in  Roasetti, 
Swinburne,  and  Morris,  did  not  so  much  as  touch  AmohL 
He  trifles  once  with  the  Arthurian  Legends  in  Tristram 
and  Iseult,  but  unsuccessfully.  He  had  not  the  emo- 
tional abandonment  nor  the  warmth  of  imagination  of 
tiie  ronumticist  He  iq^Mroadied  in  mai^  ways  neaier  to 
tiie  spirit  of  Wordsworth  than  any  other  recent  poet. 
He  has  something  of  the  same  gravity  and  philosophic 
calm,  though  he  is  far  enough  removed  from  Wordi- 
wotA's  f^gious  serenity.  In  the  last  lines  of  the  Smkd 
lift  he  recalb  the  very  phrases  of  Wordsworth: 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  laos 

AVherein  he  does  forever  chase 
The  flying  and  elnrive  shadow,  mt. 

An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face. 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  lus  breast 

And  tiMB  he  thinks  he  knows 

The  hills  whence  his  life  roM, 

And  the  sea  where  it  goes. 

But  in  his  general  disapproval  of  modern  life  and  opin- 
ion, he  was  forced  in  literary  ideals  mudi  fttrttor  bade 
than  W(»dsworih.  He  drew  his  real  tnsiHratiMi  fron 
Ae  great  masters  of  antiquity. 

In  the  preface  to  his  poems  published  in  1854  he  tA 


MATIBEW  ABNOU>  m 

us :  "  In  the  sincere  endeavour  to  kwa  aad  piwlioe, 
amid  the  bewildering  confusion  of  our  times,  what  is 
sound  and  true  in  poetical  art.  I  seemed  to  myself  to  find 

the  only  tuie  guldMce,  the  only  soUd  footing,  among  the 
ancients.   They,  at  any  rate,  knew  what  they  wanted  in 
art,  and  we  do  not."   We  can  perfecUy  understand  how 
a  man  of  Arnold's  temperament  and  culture  should  find 
his  only  sure  footing  among  the  andenti.  The  very  lu- 
cidity and  gravity  of  his  mind  inclined  him.  if  early 
education  and  culture  had  not,  to  intense  sympathy  with 
the  great  classical  authors.   And  the  result,  so  iar  as  the 
history  of  modem  poetry  is  concerned,  is  remarkable. 
In  the  full  stream  of  romanticism  Arnold  stands  imnio«» 
able,  turning  his  face  away  from  modem  methods  of  ex- 
pression and  vagaries  of  style,  to  those  alone  who,  accord- 
ing  to  him,  knew  wlttt  they  wanted  In  art  and  found 
It.   He  too  knew  what  he  wanted  in  art  and  found  it 
He  -panted  verbe  as  the  best  vehicle  for  his  best  thoughts. 
He  had  no  profound  deeps  of  emotion  to  be  broken  up 
or.if  he  had,  his  natimd  reticence  was  too  great  to  pw-' 
nut  the  outflow  to  find  its  way  into  poetry.   He  had  no 
to  which  the  winged  words  of  poetry 
were  an  eertatic  idtef.  He  had  not  the  lyrical  faculty  •_ 
that  gift  of  melody  which  enchants  us  by  its  meremu-i 
sical  sweetness  and  beauty.   But  he  had  a  message  to  % 
utter,  and  he  knew  how  to  utter  it  with  a  certain  sustained 
and  stately  music  of  phrase  which  wa-s  impressive.   The  " 
spirit  of  the  antique  penetrates  an .  -'dvata  aH  his  best  m 
poetry.    In  his  T^wV.he  has  produced  one  of  the  ^ 
noblest  of  elegies  since  the  Lycidas  of  Milton.  In 
ha  Sm^tAeies  oh  Btn*  he  has  written  a  fine  poem.  fuU 
of  claaric  gravity  and  beauty.  In  his  purdy  didactic 
work,  such  as  tiM  memomble  poems  on  Otmmmm,  he 


840  THE  MA 

has  succeeded  in  expressing  the  l   _ 

and  ptiikMophic  emotions,  with  the  same  classic  lucidity 
and  charm.  It  is  only  when  he  touches  the  questions  of 
the  heart  that  he  fails.  There  he  is  weak,  becauM  he 
has  not  the  emotional  abendomMal  ra^uWle  for  the 
fiaett  lyffiftil  work,  and  berause  in  fact  his  itural  gift  of 
melody  was  slight,  &  n\  ^^  hat  melodiousness  "  expression 
he  possessed  was  latlier  the  laboriotis  result  of  ctdtUR 

than  (rf  natuie. 

The  perfect  culture  of  Arnold  rcvttls  itself  everywhere 
in  the  Plicate  and  finished  workmans'iip  of  Ym  verse. 
Whatever  lack  of  spontaneity  and  emotioe  we  may  ac- 
cuse him  of,  we  can  littd  M  fwh  the  farm  of  Ws 
woffc.  A  hem  critic  of  others,  he  iias  exercised  a  severf 
vigilance  over  himself,  and  the  resuH  is  an  a*^^)^ 
terseness  of  phrase  and  distinctness  <rf  ejqpMWoa. 
There  •«  Bo  meliiaa  l«pMi,«»iteKd  ■«»  Pf*- 
Mwes,  is  his  poems ;  he  consistently  'loes  his  best,  and  is 
content  with  nothing  less  than  the  best.  He  emp^uc- 
aUy  knows  what  he  wants  in  art,  and  fin*  it  He  h 
'    ^  '  SI  not  tc 


consctow  of  Wi  own  limltiCioM,  and  is 
emecd  them.  He  has  the  clearest  possible  conception  oi 
hte  own  powers,  and  he  cultivates  them  with  an  unsparm| 
studiousness.  His  verse  reminds  •  of  some  lofty  uplaiii 
farm,  shut  in  by  Ae  purity  mtmy  heights,  where  th. 
toil  yidds  a  rich  reward,  but  only  at  the  pnts  of  infin.f 
industry.   It  is  the  art  and  daring  of  man  which  hav 


made  the  soil  rich ;  its  natural  tendency  b 
aity.   It  is  coltivalBd  to  the  iMt  degree,  be  cause  withoi 
watchfulness  no  crop  were  possible.    All  is  green  an 
beautiful ;  but  it  is  not  the  rank  fullness  oi  N^ure,  it 
the  precious  gain  of  art   fa  the  mmt  wKf  AamM 


IT  TTHJsiW  ABKOLD 


m 


wraag  iaiprcttic  ii — but  witf  a  sem  ^  of  admiration  for 
his  art  He  catrnot  be  lavish,  be  he  is  not  wealthy. 
Nabm  bat  impoaed  upoa  him  t  x  ated  of  frugality,  and 
ba  Amm  m  how  culture  cm  i  1111111  tlM  compawUw 

narrovraess  of  end  ivvmen"  into  nobie  fmitfulnen.  And 
the  atmosphere  ot  his  verse,  like  tii  i  air  *:hat  r^^^^^^  over 
aiwnintain  (arm,  is  dear  ui  i  cold,  aac  aim  chilly. 
It  is  II  Jiidy  Md  i»6isid  faapos.stt>kr  Ifctf  #5  -  oMMscfran 
should     re  to  li  '       it.    /    the        itajn'    jot  the 
thick  vines  duster,  anc  ^  wat  n  suai«^    ripf    ^  on  the 
bdce,  and  k  is  there  ^^ost  men  i--^     ^       The  ■ 
love  poetry  Ml  of  frsc»rt  heat,  t«  Tiiirtitiir  ^dagu 
can  sing.   /  rnt   '  i  *oc   old,         vere,  for  those  whos. 
emotions  arc  '^ck  aad  .eautiv      r  t  :  young,  the  ten- 
der-hearted,  tte  as^v^  «d, «  '  ^  days  are  filled  with 
careles<  happiscsik    ^   jt      less  H  4m  men  good  to 
cliiTib  -    netimes    md     >y     1  in  a  keener  air.  The 
mouatato  wind      >  has  its  ragrance,  and  it  can  bodi 
cod  Md  iavtg   rate.   So  '  -  as  tfie  art  of  poetiy  goes, 
AmoWs  is  aeo^    ig  and        u  rating  presence.  Htw 
us^    '  smplicity,  t  t>       eo  perfection  for  perfec- 
tiwi's  sidce,  to  the  lov»         ,uon4  instead  of  tiie  love  of 
«aafy :  aad  hi  poe         a  ctessic  gravity  of  tOHdi  at 
*  m/'s,  aritetl  t»  a  c^»f  «  art  of  wwkmanshipi. 
ei  •  inust       be  s    .posed  that  Arnold  has  no  mel- 
of )        n,      natui<ii  freshness  and  distinction.  On 
cfMMai    Ac.  r  is  a  fes^mt  bwidth  cS  txmt  {■  Ui 
pc  irv,  set      few  f  our  later  poets  have  fcadik&d.  Il 
would  I    pt.  tbiF  on  many  fine  narrative  poems 

bdbre  j  ca^ne  to  ^  naif  so  line  as  Amokl's  Sokra^ 
and  IbtstMm.  It  is  am  of  tlie  few  poems  ^MA  have 
the  stunp  of  perfection  on  them.  It  may  not  be  popular, 
itmagraeverbepopidar;  bi^  those  who  fcad  it  once 


842   THE  MAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


care  to  have  it  by  them,  and  will  find  its  solemn  heroic 
tones  deepening  on  the  ear  at  each  fresh  reading.  As  a 
specitnen  of  modem  blank  verse  it  it  io  itidf  iciiuiikiMe. 
It  has  iM^  indeed,  tiw-  melodiousness  of  Tennyson's,  but 
it  possesses  a  stately  music  of  its  own,  and  has  a  breadth 
of  touch  which  Tennyson  has  scarcely  excelled.  It 
might  be  too  mudi  to  say  that  it  is  tiie  fiiMSt  Uank  vetse 
of  modem  times ;  but  it  is  certainly  among  the  finest, 
and  recalls  to  us  the  severe  grace  of  Landor  in  its  air  of 
impressive  stateliness  and  the  purity  of  its  diction.  In 
the  c(»duding  passage  Amdd  is  more  moved  dum  is  his 
woi^  and  eduUts  a  power  of  txpnaAm  wbkh  may 
greater  poets  might  covet. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  oa. 

Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  tiiat  low  land. 

Into  the  fiosty  surlight,  and  there  moved. 

Rejoicing,  through  the  hushed  Chorasmean  waste 

Under  die  loHtarjr  moon:  heiowed 

m^ht  for  the  Polar  star,  past  Oigunjj, 

Biteuning  and  bright  and  large.  T|ien  sands  bq^ 

To  hem  Us  watery  march,  and  dam  his  ttraaaa. 

And  split  his  currents ;  that  for  many  a  league 

The  shorn  and  parcelled  Oxus  stnuns  along 

Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  iihs,- 

Oxus.  forgetdog  die  bright  speed  he  had 

In  his  high  mountain  cradte  tn  Psmeie, 

A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer :  till  at  last 

The  knvcd<for  dash  of  waves  Is  heard,  and  wide 

Ifit  luintiioM  home  of  wattn  cpeiw,  bright 

And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new-baAsd  SMOT 

Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  sea. 

There  is,  indeed,  no  magical  and  haunting  resonance 
in  tiMsc  lines;  but  tiiey  are  an  admirable  Qhistration  of 
the  two  qualities  in  which  Arnold  mM  CTWBad,  Hm 
qualities  of  siiufdicity  and  severity. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


In  another  direction,  also,  Arnold  has  achieved  the 
highest  kind  of  success.  As  one  re-reads  his  poetry, 
widi  a  more  activated  apprectatton  of  its  charm,  the 
feeling  grows  that  no  one  aiooe  Wordsworth  hasmr- 
passed  Arnold  in  a  peculiar  power  of  both  depicting 
and  interpreting  Nature.  Two  verses  from  Tkyrsis  may 
serve  to  fflnitarate  tiits  power,  and  wiU  do  so  better  than 
manjr  pages  of  aiudysis  and  disquisitioa. 

So,  snne  tmspeatnont  mom  in  eariy  June, 
When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er* 
Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day— 
When  furdeB-mais^  tad  all  die  graicjr  ioor. 
With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  nay. 
And  chestnut  flowers  r 's  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  patting  cry, 
Frmb  Ae  wet  field,  through  tfai  vest  gat  den-tiees, 
Com  «Mi  tBm  volkying      aad  towing  breeiet 


Too  quick,  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Soon  will  the  high  midsummer  pomps  come  oa* 
SooB  irill  Oe  OHMk  eamlioH  bfMk  aad  tadi 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snap-dragon, 

Sweet->^lliam,  with  his  homely  cottage-aneU, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  glow  ; 
Rows  that  down  the  alley  aUae  afiur. 

And  open,  jasmineHmdled  latdccs. 

And  groups  under  the  dreamy  garden-trees. 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening-star. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  surpass  verses  like  tliese  eitiier 
for  truth,  simplicity,  or  voluptuous  magic.  Interesting 
and  imprettive  as  AntoU's  ethical  poems  are,  yet  they 
by  no  meaaa  vqpcaeat  liim  firiily.  MuHpa  tea  arS  ki 
time  follow  the  fote  of  his  doubtful  experiments  in  theol- 
ogy, and  melt  out  of  OMOMcy ;  but  it  is  haxdfy  poMiUa 


844  THE  M^F^^iw  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


that  a  poem  like  T^yrsis  can  ever  be  forgotten.  There 
can  be  no  hesitation  in  naming  him  with  Tennyson  as 
among  the  greatest  poets  of  English  pastoral  life. 

Yet,  after  aU,  tiie  bcrt  known  woric  <tf  Amdd,  and  in 
most  respects  the  most  memorable,  is  that  section  of  his 
poetry  which  expresses  the  weariness  and  religious  dis- 
quiet of  the  times.  It  is  here  the  deepest  brea^ngs  of 
hte  iMart  are  heard.  He  is  a  spirit  loosed  upon  the  sun- 
less seas  of  doubt,  and  ever  wearily  scanning  the  gray 
horizon  for  a  desired  but  undiscovered  haven.  He  is  full 
of  an  incommunicable  grief,  and  in  the  effort  to  eaqiras 
what  he  suifei*,  he  teaches  an  intairiQr  of  uttennoe 
which  we  find  nowhere  else  in  his  poetry.  The  most 
characteristic  poems  Arnold  ever  wrote  are  the  StanMOS 
from  tkt  Grandi  Chartreuse,  and  the  Obermtatn  poems. 
In  cadi  <rf  tiMse  tiiere  oocitr  strildi^  lines  idiich  have 
passed  into  current  quotations,  as  felicitous  expressions  of 
human  thought  and  sentiment  He  accurately  describes 
his  own  religious  position  when  he  pictures  tiie  GiMk 

Wandering  between  two  worids,  one  dead. 
The  odwr  poweiiw  »  be  bora. 

ttid  his  own  unsatisfied  desire,  mingled  with  a  dUBM* 
teristic  toudi  of  critical  pessimism,  when  he  a^; 

Here  leave  «s «»  Ae  eutirffli  «Nas 
Last  of  the  ptopte  ute  brifevel 
SBnrt,  wMIe  yean  eagnnpe  tfw  tosw* 
SHsl  At  beet  are  deal  bmt. 

V/^fitSHf  fclicitoiw  we  sttdi  phrasw  ns  tiMse* 

Bat  we,  brought  forth  and  reared  ia  hSMS 

Of  change,  alarm,  tarpriae  — 
What  shelter  to  graw  lipe  ia  mnt  y 

What  Msws  IS  gnw  wilsl 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  ftf 

Too  fast  we  live,  too  much  an 

Too  hanssed.  to  attain 
Wordnrortli's  iweet  calm,  or 

And  loniwMs  view  to  fria. 

It  would  be  easy  to  quote  widely  from  this  section  of 
Arnold's  poetry,  because  in  interest  and  expression  it  is 
^  most  dianictenitic  of  all  his  work.  It  is  indeed  a 
painful  interest  He  cannot  conced  from  us  tiutttiiere  is 
no  peace  in  culture.  A  pervading  sadness  and  despair 
are  its  most  memorable  features.  There  breathe  through- 
otrt  tile  sadneai  cf  fiulure,  the  distress  of  faithlessness. 
Occasionally  it  ti  a  deeper  note  tlna  icgrat  wliidi  h 
struck :  it  is  the  iron  chord  of  a  militant,  yet  despairfaig 
pmimiim,  which  vibrates  in  such  satirk  vencs  as  thom  i 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed, 
Creep,  and  let  no  more  be  sud  I 
Vain  thy  onset!  all  stands  £ul^ 
ihou  thyself  mint  bmk  at  litt. 

Let  the  long  contention  ceaie  t 
Geese  are  swans,  and  swans  are 
Let  them  have  it  how  they  win  t 
Ihonart tiled:  be«bestiIL 

But  tiiis  bdongs  r^wr  to  the  domain  of 
than  of  literary  criticism.    It  is  enough  for  us  to  note 
lastly,  concerning  Matthew  Arnold,  that  in  power  to  In- 
teipnt  die  spMt  oTliii  age, ia Int^ectaal 

in  the  prevailing  sadness  of  all  his  poetry   

with  modem  life  and  thought,  he  is  the  most  representa- 
tive man  of  the  cu)'  re'of  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth 
oeateiy.  A  pr-i .  «  <!  iMliiiclia!>  borne  with  pathetic 
stoicism  is  the  c  all  his  latter-day  poetry.  It  is 
tiie  poetiy  of  a  aun  wbo  iM  kit  ftitli»  bilk  «iK> 


346  '£H£  BtlAKEBS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


atdy  wishes  that  he  could  believe.  It  is  a  long  wail  after 
the  golden  age  when  the  Cross  was  in  its  first  triu0i|ifa : 

(%  I  had  I  lived  in  that  great  day, 

Hew  Ind  f*^  ^orjr  new 
Filled  earth  and  heaven,  and  caught  tnmf 

My  ravished  spirit  too. 

More  than  any  other  poet  of  our  time,  save  Browning, 
MatAew  Amdd  is  imbued  wHli  tiie  rdigious  spirit:  but 
less  than  any  other  who  has  felt  the  force  of  religious 
truth,  has  he  gained  the  secret  of  serenity,  the  mind  that 
knows  tiie  calm  of  certitude,  tbe  heart  tint  rests  ia  die 
tnmqwMity  of  fiulh. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

BerK  M  LtMdn,  May  12,  1828.  First  volumt  $f  Pttms  tf. 
fttred  1870,  tad  ut$nd  vlumt,  1880.    Dud  st  BirtkmttMi, 

WITH  Tennyson  and  Browning  in  the  long  line 
of  great  modem  poets  tliere  are  odier  names 
which  cannot  escape  mention,  and  foremost 
is  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  In  point  of  quantity  Rossettt 
IwB  added  comparatively  little  to  the  store  of  modem 
poetry;  his  chief  praise  it  that  wlnt  he  \m  given  ut  it 
distinguished  by  high  and  sustained  artistic  quality.  It 
may  also  be  said  that  his  influence  on  literature  has  been 
out  of  an  proportion  greater  than  his  achievement 
Years  before  he  had  himsdf  pt^MiAed  a  sfa^  vdtmie» 
William  Morris  had  dedicated  a  book  to  him,  and  botil 
Morris  and  Swinburne  wwe  accustomed  to  regard  him  as 
their  niMter.  Rossetti  also  the  artist  was  inalien- 

ably associated  with  tiie  poet  Ifoie  tfm  ai^^  ote 
modern  he  has  brought  the  art  of  painting  and  poetiy— . 
both  arts  of  expression— into  harmony.  His  poems  were 
often  suggested  by  his  {MCtures;  his  pictures  were  an 
expression  of  the  same  ideM  wUck  dnmlHilinl  Ui  poeliy. 
Both  as  artist  and  poct^his  position  is  unique,  and  it  is  a 
matter  of  somewhat  complex  aitidsm  to  discern  rightty 

tile  tTM  bearbigi  of  Us  irork,  and  the  exact  d^rae  of  his 
influence. 

Tlw  iiiwiiiimimn  of  Rossetti's  We  o^lte  l» 

847 


mm 


iitfiifiiiiiiTiimfM 


348   THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


extent  this  position.  He  was  born  in  an  artistic  atmos- 
phere. The  whole  Rossetti  family  were  singularly  gifted, 
and  {MPobabty  no  house  in  England  poesesMd  sudi  an  i^- 

mosphere  of  artistic  culture  as  that  in  which  Rossetti  was 

reared.  For  every  power  of  imagination  or  fancy  which 
Rossetti  possessed  there  was  the  genial  sunshine  of  a  fos- 
tering sympatiiy.  Not  uimatunill^  tlie  dream  of  tte 
young  Rossetti  was  to  be  an  artist,  and  it  was  as  an  artist 
he  began  his  life.  But  he  was  very  soon  to  develop 
original  ideas  and  methods  in  art.  He  observed  that  two 
things  seemed  to  have  utterly  departed  from  Englkh  art, 
viz.,  the  temper  of  religious  wonder,  and  the  power  of 
perfect  fidelity  and  reverence  in  following  nature.  In  the 
earlier  painters  both  these  great  qualities  were  supreme. 
Rossetti  determined  to  reproduce  tiiem.  Hisideasfooad 
good  soil  in  the  enthusiasm  of  Millais  and  Holman  ..ant, 
each  of  whom  at  this  time  was  on  the  threshold  of  his 
artistic  career.  The  first  outcome  of  this  enthusiasm  was 
the  fomwtifm  of  what  was  known  as  the  Pre-Ra{diaeltte 
&rotiierhood,  and  the  picture  of  each  artist  bore  the 
magic  letters  P.R.B.  The  object  of  this  brotherhood 
cannot  be  better  stated  than  in  the  words  which  Rossetti 
uMd  in  starting  13»  Germ,  whidi  was  a  smaB  magaiiM 
devoted  to  the  exposition  of  the  new  creed:  "  The  en- 
deavour held  in  view  throughout  the  writings  on  art,"  he 
said, "  will  be  to  encourage  and  enforce  an  entire  adher- 
ence to  the  simf^ty  of  Nature." 

Himself  an  Italian,  with  the  southern  sensuousness  of 
temperament,  intensity  of  passion,  and  love  of  art,  when 
Rossetti  began  to  write  poetry  these  qualities  of  nature  at 
once  manifiested  themselves.  To  die  colder  English  taste 
there  is  a  warmth  in  the  poetry  of  Rossetti  which  is  not 
always  pleasant,  and  whidi  to  the  fastidious  ini|^  evn 


DANTE  GABRIEL  B068ETXI 


be  oflenstve.   English  poetry  presents  no  more  curioui 
study  than  Rossetti's  treatment  of  woman.  He  approaches 
her  wWtk  consntent  chivahy,  with  an  almost  religious 
reverence,  and  yet  with  a  ftwk  aaiMMnous  admiratkm 
of  her  mere  physical  charms  which  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  a  correcter  taste  aad  more  masculine  mind. 
It  k  difficult  to  atpnn  the  exact  feeling  that  this  pecuUar 
tendency  of  RoHetti's  portrji  ninii  i*  us.   The  oMer 
poets,  Shakespeare  preeminent,  did  not  scruple  to  touch 
the  same  difficult  theme  witii  breadth  and  daring.  But 
what  we  ahvays  niaric  in  Shakespeare  is  that  peculiar 
justness  o(  visim  iHiich  poeoves  all  ^^tgt  in  tek 
natural  apportionments  and  adjustments ;  that  divine  in- 
nocence which  can  gaze  without  shame  on  things  which, 
to  a  prurient  mind,  would  suggest  nothing  but  impulses 
of  impurity.   Had  Rossetti's  teen  a  mom  mwniHnc 
mind,  he  would  have  been  saved  from  certain  errors  of 
taste  which  unquestionably  disfigure  his  poetry.   Just  as 
the  Iwalthy  appetite  rejects  luscious  and  over-ripe  fruit, 
and  prefers  a  sharper  flavour,  so  the  hui^  ami  is  sooa 
surfeited  with  the  over-ripe  descriptions  of  female  charms 
in  which  Rossetti's  sonnets  abound.    We  turn  away  when 
Rossetti  lifts  Ae  nuf^  curtain ;  we  grow  tired  of  "  emu- 
lous ardours,"  "  abandoned  hair,"  and   ft^ffaig  p^sss." 
We  feel  that  it  is  bad  art,  if  nothing  else ;  for  true  art  is 
accurate  art,  which  does  not  exa^^erate  details  at  the 
expense  of  general  trutii,  and  this  perpetual  recurrence 
of  the  mind  to  one  theme,  and  that  a  mon^  mwvnliaf 
theme,  is  an  evidence  of  a  lack  of  intellectual  poise,  of  an 
effeminating  defect  of  character ;  and  it  is  in  this  moral 
eflfeninacy  that  RoMeltt's  gnat  defect  lies.   One  cannot 
speak  of  oat  who  treats  iroman  with  ohiirahnui  mi 
ahaost  pious  reverence  as  bmaocal;  hiii  il  ■mirheii 


860  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENOUBH  FOETBY 


ndtted  timt  Roasetti  penntti  hiimdf  a  license  of  expres- 
sion which  a  more  robust  nature  would  have  rejected. 
His  world  is  dominated  by  the  "  eternal  feminine."  He 
tings  cX  woman,  not  of  man ;  tiie  praise  beauty,  not 
the  praise  of  courage.  His  sweetness  is  a  cloying  sweet- 
ness. When  we  enter  the  world  of  his  poetry,  it  is  like 
entering  that  sleeping-room  of  Rossetti's  which  Mr.  Hall 
Caine  so  strikinf^y  describes :  a  funoneal  apartment,  full 
of  black  oak  furniture  carved  in  quaint  designs,  of  velvets 
and  faded  tapestries,  of  antique  lamps  that  shed  a  drowsy 
light  upon  the  heavy  air,  a  room  of  charms  and  mysteries, 
remc^  and  hidden  from  the  iMisy  life  of  men.  At  fifst 
we  are  irresistibly  fascinated.  We  breathe  a  perfumed 
air,  and  hear  the  sweetest  music ;  but  presently  we  begin 
to  long  for  the  open  heavens,  the  fresh  wind,  the  "  mul- 
titudinous laughter  of  the  sea,"  the  reassuring  tramp  of 
human  feet.  Beautiful  as  Rossetti's  poetry  is,  we  feel 
that  it  is  something  of  an  exotic,  and  that  in  its  super- 
sensuousness  there  is  something  enervating  to  the  vigour 
of  the  taste  and  the  fibre  of  the  moral  nature. 

This  defect  of  Rossetti's  poetry  is  probably  due  to  the 
fact  that  his  life  was  to  a  large  degree  a  morbid  one. 
The  great  romance  and  tragedy  of  his  history  lay  in  his 
love  and  marriage.  He  was  first  attracted  to  hk  future 
wife  1^  her  remarkable  beauty ;  it  was  a  beauty  of  a  very 
unusual  type,  full  of  stately  purity  and  t!'i;nity,  and  yet 
characterized  abo  by  a  sort  of  gracious  sensuousness. 
After  a  long  engagement  they  were  married,  and  twelve 
months  later  she  died.  From  that  hour  the  glory  and 
vivacity  of  life  were  gone  for  Rossetti ;  he  became  prac- 
tically a  redtne,  a  br tiding  and  uncomfbrted  num,  triiose 
days  were  passed  in  the  shadow  of  the  dead.  How  fii^ 
his  wife's  beauty  filled  his  mind  is  soen  in  the  long  am^f 


DANTE  GABRIEL  BOfiSEm  Wt 

of  his  pictures.   It  was  her  foce  which  dominated  the 
thirty  years  of  his  artistic  toil.   The  features  of  his  dead 
wtfs  look  out  of  every  female  face  he  painted;  she  is 
the  Franceses  and  the  dead  Beatrice,  the  lady  of  love  and 
the  lady  of  sorrow.    Into  her  coffin  he  thrust  his  poems 
in  token  of  his  passionate  abandonment  of  earthly  ambi- 
tions, and  there  for  a  oonsidenble  period  they  remained. 
Later  on  there  came  the  terrible  sliadow  of  imomaia,  and 
with  it  the  confirmed  habit  of  chloral-taking.   It  seemed 
as  though  Rossetti  had  become  the  Uving  embodiment 
of  the  unhappy  hero  of  Poe's  poem  of  the  Haven.  The 
rooms  he  inhabited  were  rich  with  the  curious  coUections 
of  an  artistic  taste;  the  lamplight  streamed  upon  the 
"  tufted  floor,"  but  "just  above  the  bust  of  Pallas,  just 
«bwe  ^  dMnber-door,"  wm  seated  the  bird  of  evU 
omen,  recaUing  vainly  in  his  mournful  cry  the  pcririMd 
splendours  of  the  past.   Sensuous  in  all  things,  Rossetti 
was  sensuous  in  his  grief,  and  cultivated  sorrow  as  other 
men  eulttvate  happiness.  The  shadow  that  had  faUen  on 
his  soul  was  "  lifted  never  more."   Can  we  be  tuipriMd 
that  there  is  a  lack  of  healthy  vitality  in  his  poems? 
Melody  and  imagination  there  always  is ;  a  charm  that  is 
at  once  weiid  and  powerful;  a  heait-piereing  sadness,  a 
gloomy  force,  a  mraiorable  pregnancy  of  phraae;  but 
there  is  not  the  robust  spontaneity  of  a  healthy  mind. 
We  are  always  conscious  of  a  feverish  intensity  and 
strain.  The  gloom  of  sorrow  h  overpowering,  and  even 
when  the  theme  h  not  in  itself  sorrowful,  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  tone  of  the  poet's  voice  that  lets  us  know 
ftat  he  suffios.   In  otlter  words,  Rossetti's  poetiy  has  a 
morbid  taint  in  it  which  is  deep-rooted  and  pervasive, 
and,  for  this  reason  more  than  any  other,  it  has  f^h4  to 
lay  hokj  of  the popular  taste  in  a^y  maiked( 


859  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


Turning  from  the  easily  discernible  defects  of  Rossetti, 
we  are  first  struck  with  his  great  power  as  a  melodist 
He  brings  the  laborious  patience  of  tiie  true  artist  to  his 
work,  and  Is  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  the  best 
which  his  genius  can  achieve.    He  is  frugal  of  words ; 
he  passes  them  through  the  fieriest  assay  of  criticism  that 
he  may  gain  the  pure  gold  of  a  perfect  phrase,  and  ex* 
tnct  tfie  utmost  exprassion  of  whidi  language  is  capeUe. 
There  is  no  slovenly  work  in  Rossetti.   Indeed,  his  very 
laboriousness  almost  impresses  us  like  a  fault  at  times. 
In  his  aim  at  pr^nancy  he  becomes  obscure ;  in  his  love 
of  mdody  he  becomes  mannered.  Hte  mannerism  lies 
lai^ely  in  his  use  of  medixvai  forms  of  speech,  and  in  his 
peculiar  scheme  of  rhythm.  He  adopts  "  novel  inversions 
and  accentual  endings/'  and  tiie  eflect  upon  the  reader  h 
olkea  a  somewhat  peii^  sense  of  artifiddi^.  But  whea 
we  have  made  full  allowance  for  the  mannerism  of  Ros- 
setti, the  most  hostile  critic  is  bound  to  admit  the  artistic 
excellence  of  his  wofk.   It  is  this  point  tiiat  Mr.  Stedman 
fixes  on,  when  he  says  that "  throughout  his  poetry  we 
discern  a  finesse,  a  regard  for  detail,  and  a  knowledge  of 
ccdour  and  sound.   His  end  is  gained  by  simplicity  and 
sure  predsion  of  touch.   He  knows  exikc^  what  tStet 
he  desires,  and  produces  it  by  a  firm  stroke  of  colour,  a 
beam  of  light,  a  single  musical  tone.   Herein  he  sur- 
passes his  comrades,  and  exhibits  great  tact  in  preferring 
mdy  tiie  best  of  a  d<»en  graces  whidi  eitiier  of  tiiem 
would  introduce.    In  terseness  he  certainly  is  before 
them  all."    It  will  be  observed  that  Mr.  Stedman,  in  his 
criticism,  cannot  help  remembering  that  Rossetti  was  an 
artfait  as  well  as  a  poet  Upon  the  whc^  it  is  a  true 
instkict  which  declines  to  discuss  Rossetti's  poetry  alto- 
gether apart  from  his  paiottiiik  The  "beam  of  light*" 


IX4NTS  QAHttt^^  BOttKRI  Mt 

aadtte -single  musical  tone";  the  kMooi  iagmOlf 

which  characterizes  both  his  pictures  and  his  poemi, 
sprang  from  the  common  source  of  an  intensely  artistic 
Mtaw.  I«  irt,  fcii  cMieftitoai  of  detail  made  him  a  Pre- 
Raphaelite,  in  poetry  an  original  and  maaa««d  mtrlftfttrt- 

But  the  great  merit  of  Rossctti  is  in  the  fac^  tfiat  Iw 
"»  English  poetry  the  note  of  the  romantic 
»ad  mipmmtmti.  He  rq>roduced  the  temper  of  religious 
wonder  which  iiUed  the  mediaeval  pocb.  HM  Bb$ud 
Damozel,  is  one  of  those  few  poems  which  surprise  and 
dcUght  us  at  first  reading,  and  never  afterwards  lose  their 
d»Min.  It  ii  a  poem  alMdutdy  original  in  style,  senti- 
ment, and  rhythm,  aomethiiig  that  atamk  aloiie  in  Htem- 
ture.  The  imagery  is  new,  peculiar,  impressive;  the 
whole  poem  a  unique  combination  of  daring  and  rever- 
«ee,  ofaettanoai  warmth  and  spiritual  remoteness. 

Two  verses  stand  out  with  a  peculiar  ririrlncm  aad 
beauty  of  imagery :  the  description  of  God's  hooie— 

It  lies  ia  Heavea,  acMsi  ikt  food 
OTeiber,  Ike  a  bridge. 

Beneath  the  tides  of  day  and  night 
With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  voki,  as  tow  ai  wfaeie  ttisemlh 

Spins  like  a  fietfnl  midge : 
and  the  description  of  the  ended  day  

The  sun  was  gone  now ;  the  ended  oaea 
Was  like  a  little  feather. 
Fluttering  tax  down  the  gulf;  and  now 
^  Veke  tbroi^h  the  still  weather— 
Her  vdce  wa^  like  the  vcrice  d»  Wan 
Had  when  they  sang  together. 

AU  the  quaUties  of  Rossetti's  poetiy  are  in  this  one  won- 
derful poeaa,  which  he  wrolt  at  eighteen.  He  speaks 
aitematseiy  iOee  a  aecr  aad  aa  artist;  oae  who  is  aow  ba- 


Sft4  THE  MA^^'g'*^  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


witched  with  the  vision  of  beauty,  and  now  is  caught  up 
into  Paradise,  where  he  hears  unutterable  things.  To 
htm  the  spiritual  world  is  an  intense  reality.  He  heart 
flw  robn,  he  sect  tiie  prcsmcci  of  the  supernatural.  As 
he  mourns  beside  the  river  of  his  sorrow,  Uke  Ezekiel,  he 
has  his  visions  of  winged  and  wheeling  glories,  and  leaning 
over  the  ramparts  of  the  world  his  gaze  m  fixed  on  the 
naoovered  flsytteries  of  a  world  to  cone.  There  is  no 
poet  to  whom  the  supernatural  has  been  so  much  alive. 
Religious  doubt  he  seems  never  to  have  felt  But  the 
temper  of  religious  wonder,  the  old,  childlike,  mookkh 
itftittide  of  aire  and  fSsith  in  the  presence  of  the  unseen,  k 
never  absent  in  him.  The  artistic  force  of  his  tempera- 
ment drives  him  to  the  worship  of  beauty;  the  poetic 
and  religious  forces  to  the  adoiati<m  of  mystery. 

In  his  repcoAtctioas  of  the  medixval  ballad,  RossettMi 
success  varies.  In  common  with  Swinburne  he  was 
powerfully  attracted  by  the  Aisam  genius  of  Villon,  and 
the*  best  transiatiras  we  have  of  ^^Oon's  curioos  babdi 
are  his.  No  one  has  reproduced  so  accurately  the  temper 
and  spirit  of  the  old  ballad  as  Rossetti :  where  he  most 
frequently  fails  is  in  the  introduction  of  comj^exities  of 
thought  and  fan^  when  the  very  key  to  exo^eaoe  diottld 
be  absdute  simplicity.  Perhaps  he  aimed  less  at  the  re- 
production of  form  than  of  temper.  His  Rose  Mary,  for 
instance,  is  a  marvellous  reproduction  of  the  mediaeval 
spirit ;  but  in  its  ebborate  nws  of  structure,  its  aubtietjr  of 
s^estion,  and  its  ingemity  of  fancy,  is  as  far  as  possible 
removed  from  the  directness  of  the  old  balladists.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  the  brief  and  pathetic  poem  of  Jo/tn  0/ 
Tmn,  we  have  Ae  form  as  wdl  as  the  temper  of  the  old 
ballad  perfectly  rendewd.  WMi  wlMt  iasl^  simpBd^ 
thebdlidopMM: 


cad: 


DAims  QARRIIL  BOWlAll  aU 

John  of  Touri  is  back  with 
But  he  comes  home  ill  at  ease. 

"  Good  nonow.  noilwr."  Good . 
Vmt  will  kw  boTM  jfM  •  Mb  oMb' 


"  Go  anr.  Mlhtr,  fo  Ulbre. 


"  Very  Imt  ysor  foot  anM  M, 
That  my  wik  bear  not  at  aS." 

As  it  neaicd  the  inidni||it  toll. 


"Ten  m  *M«li.  MP  aoiber  dear. 
What's  dw  knocldng  tkit  I  tmut" 

OMfteor.  it's  the  carpcMw. 
pluks^en  the  stair." 


'Mifftataajr.mjr 


"Oh,  the  truth  must  be  s^_ 
It  s  that  John  of  Tours  is  dead.' 

•  Mother,  let  dM  sexton  kaoir 


"Ay«.nds« 


tto 


the  poem 


In  work  Uke  this  we  ksve  MiMetliiag  abMM^  new  I0 

modem  poetry.  The  strange  world  of  mediaevalism,  with 
aU  its  chivalrous  ardours,  its  awe-struck  faith,  its  simple 
mmmm^  of  kaaiaa  passion,  iHM  frank  revelations  of  feel- 
ing, its  glory  and  nNMaoe,  liwi  acifai  ftr  m  It  iiii 

thoui^  the  '   -  -  - 


ii 


SB6  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


to  move,  and  the  gateways  of  their  quaint  turreted  towns 
opened,  and  gave  egress  to  the  knights  and  ladies,  the 
troubadours  and  artificers,  of  the  days  of  dihnlry.  Tenny- 
son was  touched  with  the  same  spirit  when  he  wrote  the 
Lady  of  Skalott ;  but  Tennyson's  mediaevalism  has  a 
modern  veneer  of  moral  adaptation — Rossetti's  is  the  thing 
itself.  Tennyson's  is  the  mediaevalism  of  museums  with 
Rossetti  we  actual  move  again  in  tiie  times  of  Ai^neoitft 
and  Poictiers. 

Perhaps  the  word  which  best  describes  Rossetti's  poetry 
is  tiw  word  "  glamour."  In  common  witii  Coleric^aad 
Keats  he  possesses  a  curious  power  of  exciting  tiie  im> 
agination  into  intensity  of  vision.  There  is  a  sense  of 
wizardry  in  the  charm  which  Rossetti  wields  over  us.  He 
never  fiiiils,  even  in  his  simplest  venes,  to  cast  over  us^ 
qpeti  of  ^e  supernatural.  He  affects  us  powerfully  by 
Us  own  intensity  of  vision  and  feeling,  and  lifts  us  com- 
fdetdy  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  common  Ufe  into  that 
world  of  subde  sensation  and  imai^ttation  in  wWA  he 
habitually  dwelt.  Take,  for  instance,  so  simple  a  poem  as 
My  Sister's  Sleep.  Its  theme  is  purely  modem :  it  pictures 
the  dying  of  his  sister,  amid  the  common  surroundings  of 
oidinuyUfie.  It  is  OirirtniM  Eve:  Ms  flMflwrlmlMr 
littie  wodc-tabk  with  work  to  fini^  set  beside  her. 

Her  needles,  as  she  lud  them  down. 
Met  Ughtly.  and  her  nlken  gown 
SmiM  :  M  oter  MiM  thaa  that 

But  in  an  instant  Rossetti  has  inve^  tiw  whole  soMt 
wItt  I^MWMnr  when  he  wites : 

Without,  there  was  a  cold  moon  np. 

Of  winter  radiance,  sheer  and  tUa ; 

The  hollow  halo  it  was  in 
Wm  like  an  icr  cryMal  rap. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  R08SETTI  867 

Throqgh  tlw  nnaU  room,  with  rabtle  sooaA 
or  Imbo.  hf  voata  the  fireshincdnvt 
Aad  reddened.   In  its  dim  alcove 

Tht  mirror  shed  a  clearness  round. 

I  had  been  sitting  up  some  D%hts, 

And  my  tired  mind  kk  weak  and 

Like  a  sharp  strengthening  wine  it 
Iht  ■tUlness  and  the  broken  lights. 

Twelve  struck,  that  sound,  by  dwindlii^  yean 
Heard  in  each  hour,  crept  off;  and  tea 
The  ruffled  rilence  spread  f^iw, 

lihe  wMer  Oat  a  pebble  atiiB. 

All  this  is  exquisitely  simple,  and  exquisitely  realistic. 
Yet  there  is  a  subtlety,  a  magic,  a  charm  of  imagination 
inventing  it  all,  which  riveti  the  attention  and  findnatai 
the  fancy.  It  affects  us  like  some  pm^eitt  and  pervastv* 
perfuine.  We  may  analyze  the  verses  as  we  will ;  the  es- 
sence is  too  volatile  to  be  captured  by  any  such  means  as 
these.  And  tiiere  is  the  same  indefinable  charm  in  aB 
Rossetti's  poetry ;  a  quality  original  and  bewitching,  whidi 
is  aU  his  own,  and  is  like  nothing  else  in  modem  poetry. 

aamour  "  best  describes  it :  something  beauUful  and  un- 
earthly, that  hy  M  fcstnint  upon  t»,and  cumot  be 
shaken  off.  It  is  a  rare  gift,  one  of  the  very  rarest  hi 
English  poetry,  but  it  is  unquestionably  the  special  note 
of  Rossetti's  poetry  ,  and  the  real  secret  of  hU  inauence. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Resselti  has  exerdsed  a 
wide  influence  over  modern  poetry,  and  an  Influence  that 
does  not  seem  likely  tq,  decline.  He  stc  a  new  fashion, 
bat  ht  did  more  than  this :  he  struck  a  new  note.  He  has 
had  many  imitatofs ;  aaany  have  Mhmed  ^fiiMoa,bat 
scarcely  any  has  struck  the  note.  William  Morris  comes 
nearest  in  his  early  ballads ;  then  perha{w  Bdl  Scott; 


358  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


lastly  Swinburae.  But  neither  has  the  same  intensity  of 
vision  and  terseness  of  diction.  If  Rossetti  had  only  set  a 
fashion  o{  poetry,  if  he  had  tnvented  oaljr  ■»  aidi^ 
craze  for  mediaevaliMn,  we  might  doiMtiie  permaaenoe  of 
his  influence.  All  mere  fashions  pass  away,  and  arc  for- 
gotten. But  he  has  done  much  more  than  this.  He  is  an 
original  poetic  artirt,  who  has  produced  original  mctk. 
He  has  a  message,  an  idea,  a  mission  to  communicate.  He 
opens  the  closed  doors  of  the  past,  and  leads  us  into  fresh 
fields  of  romance.  He  has  furnished  poets  with  a  new  set 
of  artistic  impulses  and  motives.  And  he  has  eanreiMd 
a  wide  influence  on  the  forms  of  poetry,  in  giving  back  to 
us  foi^otten  rhythmic  movements,  and  setting  an  example 
of  the  most  careful  literary  workmanship.  When  we  have 
ttuOe  M  pontUe  deductions  for  ddkdbs  oStu^  utA  dic- 
tion, we  have  still  left  in  Rossetti  that  rare  combination 
of  genius  and  originality  which  alone  can  coaititiite  tiie 
true  poet,  and  claim  prolonged  fame. 


xxxin 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINKJRNE 

Btrn  in  Unitm,  Jprilj,  18J7.  His  fint  frtiuctUn,  tht  Q»et» 
M$tktr  MMd  R0ummul,  fuHiilud  m  i86ii  AuLmu  m  Cm^m, 
ti64t  fmm  tmi  BMt  (Ftnt  Strits),  1866.-  Btthmll,  18741 
Pifm  snJ  BalUds  (8imd  Stria),  t^J^g  fftmt  «U  MtOMk 

(Third  Strus),  1887. 

THERE  can  be  no  doubt  that  Swinburne  is  a  fine 
poet ;  there  can  be  as  little  that  he  is  an  exL-emdy 
tmequal  poet,  who  has  not  wholly  fiilfiUed 
tiie  promise  of  his  youth.  His  earliest  poems  aroused 
intense  interest  and  enthusiasm,  and  from  the  first  his 
unique  powers  received  the  most  ample  recognition.  This 
dMratoTpniiw.liowever.cikl  notlMt  It  wwracoeeded 
by  a  fierce  critical  warfare,  which  split  the  litcmy  wwld 
into  two  camps,  and  liberated  the  most  violent  passions. 
It  was  natural  that  the  world  should  rec<^ize  the  great- 

No  reproduction  from  the  antique  since  the  AwiwilMV 
Utdmund  of  Shelley,  had  been  cast  in  so  large  a  OMuld, 
had  struck  so  full  and  loffy  a  note,  had  ^ven  iiicii  inple 
wriitawi  of  poww  anJ  tkOL  As  mi  aaibodhMirt  oT  tlia 
antique  spirit,  in  some  ways  it  was  superior  mmHi  to  the 
masterpiece  of  Shelley.  It  had  more  of  classic  gravity 
and  restraint,  and  it  was  almost  equal  in  its  ftvjfNerb  powmr 
of  — aieri  iifliiini.  *lloiMng  grandar  ^i*  <(b«  dio- 
ruses  in  Atalauta  has  been  given  us  by  the  genius  of  any 
living  poet  They  have  fire  and  stateliness,  dignity 
and  passii..,n,  tragic  depth  and  intensity,  and  a  mtain 


m  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  FOSTBY 


overwhelming  music  of  their  own,  whidi  the  greatest 
nuiten  of  poetical  txptmioa  might  oovst  It  was  ^ 
oompldeneas  of  muncd  utterance  vibkk  took  the  wcnrld 
by  storm,  and  roused  something  like  amazement  in  read- 
en  who  had  listened  to  the  sweet  flute-notes  of  Tennyson, 
and  had  givea  up  hope  of  any  furtiwr  devdopawat  hi  tbe 
ut  of  verbal  flunk.  Swinburne's  mvmc  was  like  the  fiiB 
sweep  of  a  great  wind,  or  the  organ-clamour  of  the  sea. 
It  overwhelmed  and  it  exhilarated ;  it  came  like  a  resist- 
Ictt  fiofo^  before  which  critictsn  was  bowed  uid  fiirttle, 
and  it  conveyed  also  a  sense  of  immense  power  and  re- 
source in  the  poet.  He  seemed  to  produce  the  most 
ongnificent  effects  of  diction  without  effort,  and  to  be 
abk  to  go  (m  producing  diem  without  weartnesi  or  ex- 
haustion. The  poem  was,  indeed,  the  first  full  utterance 
of  a  poet  in  the  first  freshness  and  glory  of  his  genius. 
On  the  day  which  followed  the  completion  of  Ckasttlard, 
AManta  waa  conuneiiced.  His  genius  wu  ia  futt  flow, 
wad  it  seemed  to  his  readers  of  a  quarter  of  a  onturjr 
ago  that  there  was  no  point  of  achievteinent  or  crowa  of 
fame  that  might  not  well  be  his. 

Two  years  after  the  publication  of  AUdtmta  in  Caljf 
4bm  Swinburae  puUiriied  his  Poems  and  Ballads.  For 
the  moment  there  was  a  shock  of  pained  surprise,  and 
thee  the  storm  of  anger  and  disappointment  broke.  The 
Pttms  and  BtUiadt  was  aot  really  a  aew  work;  it  waa  a 
cdlection  of  poems,  most  of  which  had  been  written  at 
an  earlier  date.  They  represented  the  "  storm  and  stress  " 
period  of  the  poet's  development,  the  passionate  ferment- 
ing and  dearittg  of  hn  feaius.  The  theoMS  woe  peril- 
ous, the  spirit  tiensuous.  The  entire  atmosphere  of  tiie 
book  was  morbid,  if  not  immoral.  The  poet  in  the  mad- 
ness of  his  turbid  thoughts  seemed  to  have  no  respect 


AM»ERNON  CHAELE8  SWINBURNE  861 

for  the  decencies  of  Ufe ;  he  even  took  a  violent  and  sav- 
.igtf  pleasure  in  defying  them.    Sensuous  passion  was 
treated  wtdi  a  fiaakacM  inynowa  in  modern  poetry,  and 
the  reticence  of  natural  modesty  was  flung  to  the  windk 
The  outcry  that  arose  reproduced  the  passionate  vitupera- 
tion of  flie  attacks  made  on  Byron.   Just  as  Southey  at- 
tacked the  Satamc&M^PMtry,  90  no^  poet.  o{ 
about  equal  caUbre.  attacked  Rossetti,  and  by  implication 
Swinburne,  in  an  anonymous  article  on  the  F/esA/y  School 
of  Pottry. »   It  can  serve  no  useful  purpose  to  fight  these 
battles  over  again.   Fooliih  and  regrettable  tliiagB  were 
said  on  both  sides.   There,  however,  the  book  stands  and 
ite  influence  has  been  wide-spread.   The  damage  it  in- 
flated on  Swinburne's  reputation  has  been  irreparable. 
In  efiects  are  seen  in  the  productioni  of  a  swarm  of  mi^ 
nor  poets,  who  have  seemed  to  imagine  that  the  purveying 
of  moral  poison  was  the  highest  duty  of  the  poet,  and 
that  die  nearer  a  poet  came  to  sheer  indecency  the  truer 
was  his  gift.  Critioi  also  araee  wlio  made  it  the  iint 
article  of  a  sound  poetic  faith  that  for  the  poet  NatUK 
had  no  reticencies,  and  that  in  art  moral  considerations 
had  no  weight,  and  were  of  no  account.   It  is  possible 
that  tlie  wisdom  of  maturer  life  km  often  led  Swrnbnme 
himself  to  wish  that  he  had  burned  some  of  these  erotic 
verses  of  his  youth.   The  very  charm  and  music  of  them 
ooartihites  a  perennial  peril.   They  have  a  secret  awl 
subtie  sweetness  as  of  forbidden  fruft  which  begets  in  m 
unspoken  covetings.   To  read  them  is  Uke  sitting  at 
some  enchanted  feast,  wh^  lamps  glitter,  and  voluptuous 
muric  tremblei  on  the  ear,  where  tiie  air  is  heavy  with 
odonr.  and  tito  eenm  gmdaaQy  are  ovtreomefey 

'  Tht  FUshfy  Sckoti  #/  P^try,  by  "  ThomM  IMted" 
BwhwMui),  ia  dM  Cmtmtm'm%  Mmim  %m 


362  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGUSH  POETRY 


charms,  as  the  moral  sense  is  slackened,  and  the  resolute- 
ness of  manhood  »  diMolvcd  in  evil  languor;  and  it 
is  oniy  when  tiie  dear  dawn  shines  in,  and  the  tmk 
bteaAi  of  Nature  wakes  us  from  our  heavy  sleep,  that 
we  Mse  it  is  a  poooned  banquet  we  have  shared,  and  we 
pqr  tile  penal^  of  abiding  disgust  fur  tiie  short-lived 
abutment  of  tfie  hour.  No  aMture  imui  of  ptne  fife 
can  read  these  poems  without  revulsion.  We  may  even 
say  more:  that  all  moral  considerations  apart,  these 
poems  are  bad  art  It  is  not  true  art  which  fixes  <m  the 
sensuous  side  of  life  akme,  md  forgets  tiie  thousandfold 
nobler  and  wholesomer  aspects  which  exist.  There  is 
nothing  so  monotonous  as  sin.  There  is  nothing  that 
sooner  wearies  the  discerning  mind  than  tiie  perpetual 
strumming  on  tiie  one  yvUgjU  duMd  of  fleshly  affinities. 
Sunk  as  man  may  be,  he  covets  something  better  than 
this ;  and  if  he  feed  on  the  swine-hiaks  he  does  not  want 
fyrics  of  die  swine-trough.  When  we  compare  the  grav- 
ftjr  and  beauty  of  the  Atalanta  with  the  morbid,  turbid, 
unwholesome  imagination  of  the  Poems  and  Ballads,  we 
can  scarcely  be  surprised  at  the  vehemence  of  the  public 

It  would  be  a  mistake,  however,  to  suppose  that  in  tiie 
two  volumes  of  his  Poems  and  Ballads  Swinburne 
touches  only  such  themes  as  I  have  alluded  to.  There 
are  powerful  evidences  of  otiier  inlltteiicei  tiMui  those 
«^ch  find  utterance  in  the  erotic  lyrics  of  his  unripe 
youth.  Like  Rossetti,  he  had  carefully  studied  the 
mediaeval  manner,  and  reproduces  it  with  great  efliect  in 
Si.  Dmwtkj  aad  tiie  Masque  of  Queen  Btfsatt.  Hiereil 
•1m  an  Hd}raic  influence,  a  close  observance  of  the  vivid 
utterance  of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  which  is  reproduced 
with  terrible  fmrce  in  the  poem  AAoMak.  In  the  second 


ALfiESNON  CHARLES  SWINBUBBS  9» 

volume  of  Poems  and  Ballads  much  that  was  most  dis- 
tasteful in  the  fiist  volume  disappears.  True  it  contaias 
many  truHhtton  of  ViBoa,  wltose  poetry  never  fails  to 
leave  a  bad  taste  in  dw  omoA,  Imt  tite  gaaani^teM  of 
the  book  is  altogether  stronger  and  more  normal  The 
heavy  intoxicating  fragrance  of  evil  is  still  ther«,  but  is 
subdued  aad  ii  ia  pot  <fiBBipirted  by  fioh  draughts  of  air 
that  blow  to  us  from  the  world  of  Natwc  tmpoa^trnt 
splendour  of  diction,  and  in  richness  of  musical  harmony, 
both  books  excel  The  chief  characteristic  of  the  har- 
mony is  ili  varnggUmg  originality.  New  lyrical  effects, 
new  and  perfect  riqwnas,  bewitching  iswii wi  m  ■iiJ  mf 
dertones,  meet  us  at  every  turn,  aai  once  heard  take 
possession  of  the  memory.  Music  teelf  could  scarcely 
produce  a  monr  <napiiwtr  sf  rnatlim  oe  the  ear  than  Muct 
itlGetiMM: 


U  iMc  were  what  the  rose  ii^ 

Aai  I  were  like  the 
Oiu'  Mves  woid^  fvow  to|9dMP 

In  sad  or  singing  weather ; 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  ckiw^ 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  gris^ 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  b. 
And  I  were  Hke  the  leaf. 

It  it  the  M^e  solemn  music  of  the  veisc  also 
ithcMTiatiMMliMi: 

Conld'at  dioa  not  watch  with  me  om  howP 
Day  Abas  dw  sea  with  flying  feet  of  gold, 
Wlk  saddta  ftet  diat  grase  the  gndual  sea. 

ml 


Lo,  fisr  in  heaven  the  web  of  night  undone. 
And  on  the  sudden  sea  the  gradual  sun  i 
Wave  t»  «■*•  aasaen*  tnt  nspoads  le  iw 
wasca  wwB  nar 


864  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


Or,  again,  in  this  cry  to  the  sea : 

Save  me  and  hide  me  with  all  thy  waves. 
Find  me  one  grave  td  thy  tbontand  gravw, 
Tboet  pot*  cold  popolou  giavta  of  tUatt 
Wroi^  wUmvi  Ittad  ia  a  woild  widwat  slallb 

Or  ia  the  passage  of  the  Avt  tOfut  Vali, 

For  always  Ace.  die  fervid,  kugaid  gkiias. 

Allured  of  heavier  suns  in  mightier  sides ; 

Thine  ears  knew  all  the  wandering  watery  agfas 
Where  the  sea  sobs  round  Lesbian  pnawatariM» 

The  barren  Idis  of  piteovs  wav«  to  wave. 

That  knows  not  where  is  that  Lencadian  grave 
That  Iddss  too  deep  dw  st^nma  head  of  aoaf. 

There  are  also  here  and  there  fine  images,  audi  m. 

Behold, 

Cast  forth  finm  heaven  with  feet  of  awful  g«dd 
And  plumeless  wings  that  make  the  bright  air  bla^ 
Lightning,  with  thunder  for  a  hound  behind, 

Hoadag  dnroq^  fidds  oaftimwod  and  wMOwa : 

but  in  Swinburne  it  is  not  the  imagery,  and  tttO  \m  fS» 

thought,  that  moves  us:  it  is  the  tnetrical  charm  and 
sweetness.  Many  of  the  highest  qualities  of  poetry  are 
not  his,  but  in  metrical  affluence  he  takes  rank  with  the 
highest;  and  if  he  have  any  claim  to  prokmged  re- 
membrance as  one  of  the  makers  of  modern  poetry,  it 
is  that  in  the  grasp  of  his  genius  the  English  langtu^e 
becomes  so  supple  and  sensitive  that  no  language  could 
well  excel  it  as  a  vehicle  of  lyrical  expreasion. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  impossible  to  overlook  the  fact 
that  Swinburne's  great  gift  of  expression  is  altogether 
out  of  proportion  to  other  gifts  which  are  necessary  to 
permanence  in  poetry.  Nodii^  can  be  truer  tlMS 
Coventry  Patmore's  saying,  that  in  reading  Swinburne's 
poetry  it  is  "  imi>06sible  not  to  fed  that  there  has  beca 


AUIERNON  GHABLBS  8WINBDBNS  m 


some  disproportion  between  his  power  of  saying  ^Uam 
and  the  thingp  he  has  to  say."   And  so  also  in  Patmore'k 
daaeriptloa  of  Swinburne's  relation  to  Nature.  « It  muil 
be  confessed  that  flcmeta,  ttais,  wmw.  flmm,  and  thrae 
or  four  other  entities  of  tiie  natural  order  come  in  so 
often  as  to  suggest  some  narrowness  of  observation  and 
vocabulaiy.  For  example,  in  a  passage  of  thirteen  lines 
we  have  •  flowing  forefront  of  the  year/ '  foun-floweied 
strand,'  •  blossom-fringe,'  « flower-soft  lace,'  and  '  spray- 
flowers.'"   The  same  fault  occurs  in  aU  Swinburne's 
poetry.   His  eftcts  are  kaleidoscopic:  the  subject  is 
changed,  but  the  Mta  of . words  and  iinages  are  always  the 
same.   To  have  an  overwhelmii^  flow  of  words  is  one 
tiling ;  to  have  a  Utfge  vocabulary  is  anotiicr ;  and  veiy 
often  SwinlKinie's  torrent  of  speech  reminds  us  not 
so  much  of  8  natural  fowitain  wImw  springs  are  deep 
and  abundant,  as  of  an  artificial  fountain,  which  is  al- 
**y»^y  to  shoot  aloft  its  glittering  spray,  and  always 
reabaoilM  itadf  for  some  further  service;  so  that  while 
the  fashion  of  tiie  jet  may  difler,  the  wtter  is  pretty 
much  the  same.   He  is  too  good  an  artist  to  let  us  hear 
tiie  creaking  of  tiie  force-pump,  but  all  the  same  we 
know       it  ia  tiiere,  and  for  diat  reason  he  readily  lends 
himself  to  imitation.   His  trick  of  amien^  fa  soon 
caught,  and  his  peculiarity  of  cadence  proves  itself  an 
artifice.   Men  cannot  go  behind  Shakespeare  and  steal 
the  patent  of  his  nechaaism,  because  his  poetiy  is  not  a 
thing  of  mechanism,  but  of  Nature,  and  hw  its  spring 
deep  down  in  the  living  heart  of  tilings.   The  more 
nunnered  a  poet  is,  the  sooner  is  his  metiiod  mastered, 
and  ^  sooner  doet  he  weaiy  us ;  but  the  greatest  art  is 
always  the  simplest,  and  the  noblest  works  of  art  are 
thoie  whkh  are  noat  allied  to  the  sinpiieity'  of  Itetore. 


866  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


Again,  it  is  a  true  criticism  which  discovers  ia 
Swinburne  little  genuine  observation  of  Natiure.  He 
low  NirtnM  fai  s  fiiAioMt  bvt  ft  ii  Mt  tfMt  IhMm  ttf  tfM 
true  lover.  He  has  not  studied  her  with  minute  atten- 
tion, and,  consequently,  he  tells  us  little  new  about  her. 
He  has  not  lived  in  the  solitary  joy  of  her  presence,  as 

mrilnrnftti  itirt.  tir  hii  nnttinn  siitiit  I  ml |imuIhUiiI 

witii  her  charm,  as  Shelley  wab.  For  while  Shelley's 
grasp  of  Nature  was  vague,  yet  his  adoration  of  her  was 
pawionately  sincere,  and  his  sincerity  atoned  for  his  lack 
of  detailed  observatioii.  But  SwfaAone  toodMt  oi^ 
the  surface  of  her  revelation,  and  loves  her  rather  for  her 
worth  to  him  as  artistic  ware  than  for  herself.  If  he  had 
ben  matt  deep-lieerted  and  dncere  in  his  love  he  would 
not  have  dwelt  with  ownotonous  instotence  on  one  or  two 
aspects  of  her  glory,  nor  would  thirteen  lines  of  his  poetry 
have  contained  five  adaptations  <^  the  same  image.  Itii 
Hmitatioii  of  his  power,  or  his  impatience  of  the 
dradgeiy  of  observation,  whidi  nu  kes  it  posdble  for  m 
to  say  that  he  is  kakidoicopic  nthcr  thaawioai  iaUi 
artistic  effects. 

And,  finally,  he  is  often  not  so  much  a  master  (rfwordi 
as  their  slave.  His  adjectival  opulence  may  surprise  m, 
but  it  also  wearies  us.  There  is  a  total  lack  of  concentra- 
tion in  his  speech.  He  rarely  attains  to  the  art  of  coii> 
centntii^  ia  some  one  flashing  phrase  the  whde  spirit  or 
tfaoi^ht  of  a  poem.  It  is  this  which  makes  his  dramas 
so  essentially  undramatic :  he  obscures  in  a  flood  of  gor- 
geous rhetoric  a  situation  which  ought  to  declare  itself  in 
asentenoe.  His  turpwring  gift  of  melody  enchants  us; 
but  when  it  ends  we  are  like  men  who  have  heard  a 
Wagnerian  opera,  and  find  it  difficult  to  recall  a  single 
air.   No  one  is  so  difficult  to  quote,  because  his  poetrj' 


AI/3ERNON  CHABLE8  SWUfBURNS  m 

contum  so  few  Una  which  are  dittinguUhrd  by  their 
concen^ioa  of  phrMe.   He  never  seems  to  have  used 
»•  pna^fkalk;  h»  flings  down  his  opulent  venes  in 
all  their  original  unrestrained  luxwiaace,  aad  ael 
quently  mistakes  abundance  for  opulence.   He  suridts 
ut.  but  dog  not  satisfy  ut.  A  prolonged  coune  of 
Swtabnne  latvat  m  bcwOderad  with  a  sense  of  riches,  but 
in  reality  none  the  richer.   His  poetry  it  Ulw  Uiry-gtM : 
we  dream  that  we  are  wealthy,  but  our  wealth  perpetuaUy 
eludes  us.   For  that  which  makes  poetry  a  real  posession 
is  not  only  the  art  oT  cxpresston.  but  the  gilt  of  thought, 
and  Swinburaa  omr  was  a  thinker.    We  always  M 
that  he  has  no  message,  that  his  very  vehemence  is  a  sign 
of  weakness,  and  that  his  seeming  power  of  words  con- 
aa  actual  feebleiMH  of  thought  There  are,  of 
course,  poets  who  live  by  their  exquisite  power  of  ck> 
pression  alone,  and  who  have  contributed  little  to  the  in- 
teOectual  impulses  of  the  world.  Keats  was  such  a  poet, 
but  Kcals  had  in  a  npraaie  degree  that  gift  of  concen- 
trated phrase  which  Swinburne  lacks.   So  tint  when  «• 
carefully  consider  Swinburne's  claims  to  permanent  re- 
meoibimnce,  they  are  aU  narrowed  down  into  the  fact  that 
he  ii  a  great  netrieal  artist,  and  he  nort  stand  or  &U 
upon  that  one  indisputable  quality.    Perhaps  it  seesM 
litUe  to  say ;  yet  when  we  consider  how  diiBcult  it  is  to 
mtroduce  into  a  Uterature  of  poetry  so  enormous  as  the 
English  any  new  fonaoT  cxpwIoB,  any  metrical  origi- 
nality, it  is  not  so  little  as  it  appears.   That,  at  aU  events 
IS  Swinburne's  solitary  ^m;  and  it  is  in  virtue  of  his 
metrical  genius  that  we  must  rank  him  among  tiiose  who 
have  he^  to  bmuU  aad  devekip  modm  Enslidi 
poetry.  ^ 


MKROOorv  motunoN  mr  omit 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHAKT  No.  2) 


J    /APPLIED  IM/C3E  Inc 

\ti3  East  Main  Stmt 
^     Rochnlar.  Nm  York     14«a9  USA 
S     (7ie)  4«2  -  0300  -  Pinna 
S      (716)  288  -  9989  -  Fa« 


XXXIV 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 

BtrK  at  Walthamstm,  Essex,  1834.  The  Dtfeuct  of  Gui»- 
twri,  puiBthtd  i8s8t  W*  ""^  '/  7'""'  ^^867  i  Tht 

Earthly  Paradise,  1868-/0.  Jtiiud  tht  SuuHitk  iMgiUt  1884. 
Dted  October  3,  i8g6. 

WILUAM  MORRIS  is  the  third  great  name 
connected  with  the  revival  of  Romanticism  in 
modem  poetry.  His  Defena  tf  GmMourt, 
published  in  1858,  and  dedicated  to  Rossetti,  is  marked 
by  that  same  return  to  the  medixval  spirit  which  so 
strikingly  distinguished  Rossetti,  and  whidi  bore  partiid 
firutt  in  tile  early  poems  (tf  Swinburne.  The  diitf  tliif^ 
to  be  noticed  about  all  three  poets  is  that  their  poetry  dis- 
dains modern  thought  and  purpose,  and  deliberately  seeks 
its  inspiration  in  other  times,  and  more  ancient  sources  of 
emotion.  Rossetti  alone  remained  absolute  ttv»  to  tiie 
mediaeval  spirit :  his  last  poems  had  as  distinctly  as  his 
first  the  impress  and  mould  of  mediaeval  Romanticism. 
Swinburne,  as  we  have  seen,  did  his  best  work  under  the 
shadows  of  Greek  Classicism,  and  has  besides  grcnra  men 
modern  in  spirit  as  he  has  grown  older,  handling  purely 
modern  themes,  as  in  his  Songs  before  Sunrise,  with  all 
his  early  vehemence  and  metrical  skill  With  William 
Morris  the  ^sanation  of  {NrewBt-d^rlife  isaOiii^orvery 
recent  growth,  and  it  can  scarcely  be  said  that  it  has  done 
anything  to  help  his  poetry.  As  a  poet  he  has  three  dis- 
tinct periods.  First  comes  the  period  when,  in  common 
with  Rossetti,  tile  fiudaation  of  boBadHronuwe  WW  strain 


WILLIAM  IfOBBIB  m 

upon  him,  and  its  fruit  is  the  thirty  poems  contained  in 
his  earUest  volume.  When  he  neet  appeafcd  to  the  pub- 
lie  he  had  cast  off  the  glamour  of  mediaevalism,  and  had 
become  an  epic  poet  This  is  the  period  of  /ason  and 
the  EartAfy  ParmSu.  The  last  period,  if  such  it  may  be 
caUed,  is  marked  by  an  awakeni^  to  tiie  Mtud  comfi- 
ttons  of  modem  life,  and  is  signalized  by  a  series  of 
CAan/s  for  Socialists,  which  are  remarkable  rather  for 
political  passion  dian  poetic  power.  It  may  be  well  for 
IS  briefly  to  glance  at  these  tiiree  periods. 

William  Morris's  first  'vo\\xxat,ih^  Defence  of  Guinevere, 
is  a  remaikable  book.   It  is  not  only  signillcant  for  its' 
r^val  of  medizval  feeUng,  but  also  for  its  artistic  feeling, 
its  sense  of  colour,  its  touches  of  frank  yet  inofienshw' 
sensuousness,  its  simplicity  and  directness  of  poetic  effect 
As  a  matter  of  feet,  the  question  whether  Morris  should 
devote  his  life  to  art  or  literature  for  a  long  time  hung  in 
the  balance,  and  it  Is  only  natural  Oat  his  poetiy  shouU 
be  remarkable  for  richness  of  colour  and  objective  eflfeet 
The  Defence  of  Guinevere  is  a  fragment,  but  its  very  ab- 
ruptiKSS  and  incompleteness  are  effective.   Its  involution 
of  thought  its  curious  touches  of  Indirect  iotrospeetion, 
its  vivid  glow  of  colour,  its  half-grotesque  yet  powerful 
imagery,  are  essentiaUy  mediseval.   Such  lines  as  the  fol- 
kmii^  at  once  recall  the  very  method  of  Rossetti,  and 
bear  in  themselves  the  nwria  of  didr  i^rtioadiip  to  the 
BUsud  Domogel: 

Lklen:  suppose  yotir  time  were  come  to  dit^ 
Aad  you  were  quite  Hone  and  verj-  weak: 
Tea,  lidd  a«dy^.  whOe  my  mightily 

The  wfaid  «M  mffiag  up  the  aamnr  ttreak 

Of  river  through  your  broad  lands  running  well: 
Suppose  a  hush  should  cone,  then  aoiiie  one  nsakt 


870  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


One  of  thow  dod»  it  heaven,  uid  one  te  heO, 

Now  choose  one  cloth  forever,  which  they  be 
I  wQI  not  tell  you,  you  must  somehow  tell 

"  Of  your  own  strength  and  mightiness :  here,  tee ! " 
Yea,  yea,  my  lord,  and  you  to  ope  your  eyes. 
At  foot  of  your  familiar  bed  to  see 

A  giemt  God's  ai^el  standing,  with  such  dyes 

Not  known  on  earth,  on  lus  great  wings,  and  hands. 

Held  out  two  ways,  l^ht  from  tbe  inner  ddet 

Showing  him  well,  and  making  his  commands 
Seem  to  be  God's  commands ;  moreover,  too, 
HoMii^  witbia  hit  hands  Hht  cloths  on  wanda: 

And  one  of  these  strai^  choosiiq;<lodis  wu  bl» 

Wavy  and  long,  and  one  cut  short  and  red ; 
No  man  could  tell  the  better  of  the  two. 

After  a  shivering  half-hour  you  sud 

"  God  help !  heaven's  celowr,  dw  Uae ; "  and  he  «M, 

HeU." 

Periiaps  you  then  would  roll  upon  your  bed. 

And  cry  to  all  good  men  who  loved  yon  well, 
••Ah  Chiteti  if  only  I  had  kaoira.  known,  known." 

It  is  characteristic  of  mediaeval  imaginatioii  to  dwdl  in 
the  borderland  of  spiritual  mystery,  and  to  utter  itself 
with  perfect  unrestraint,  much  as  a  child  speaks  of  such 
things,  with  a  feariessness  which  is  uncoosdous  of  wrong, 
and  a  quaintness  which  gives  a  touch  <^  stiUilllity  to  whMt 
in  other  lips  would  sound  simply  grotesque.  It  is  pre- 
cisely this  frank  and  fascinating  quaintness  which  William 
Morris  has  admirably  reproduced  in  this  retnailcabk 
poem.  His  description  of  the  angel  is  the  descriptkm  of 
a  mediaeval  artist,  who  notices  first  the  celestial  dyes  upon 
hands  and  wings,  and  the  colour  of  the  choosing-cloths, 
and  aAgfwardi  ponden  die  i^mritual  mystery  of  his  pr«i- 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  371 

ence.  The  chief  quaUty  in  both  Morris's  and  Rossetti's 
portly  »  w  •CMftive  appredaUon  of  colour;  each  has 
carried  to  its  furthest  point  the  art  of  i»iiitiiig  ia  wotds. 

There  are  other  poems  in  this  slight  volume  which  am 
equaUy  remarkable  with  the  Defence  of  Guinevere.  The 
H^v^  tn  ik*  Phodi  is  one  of  the  most  realistic  poems 
in  modem  literature.  AH  the  troubled  terror  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  the  fierce  passions  and  hasty  vengeances,  the 
barbaric  strength  and  virility  of  love,  the  popular  igno- 
rance and  cnidty,  are  brought  home  to  us  with  an  in- 
tense vividness  in  this  brief  poem.  Every  line  of  the 
poem  IS  simple  and  direct,  and  it  is  by  a  score  or  so  of 
natural  touches  of  description  that  the  whole  scene  is  put 
before  us.   It  is  a  piece  of  grim  tragedy,  painted,  rather 
than  told,  with  realistic  fideUty  and  force.  The  taadseape 
IS  as  dear  to  us  as  the  figures  of  tiie  actors ;  weseeSe 
whole  episode  in  its  tragic  misery  and  rudeacH  wlwa  «e 
read  the  opening  lines — 

AIoBf  die  dripinng.  leafless  woods 
The  stirrup  touching  either  sho^ 
She  rode  astride  as  traopen  doi. 

Urtk  Uted  to  herWT 
To  which  the  mud  spkished  wretcbodh  ; 
And  the  wet  dripped  from  every  tras 
Upon  her  head  aad  heavy  ludr. 
And  on  her  eyelids  broad  and  fair ; 
The  tears  and  rain  ran  down  her  face. 

It>iioJeliaae  rides  on  into  the  deepening  shadows  of 
«e.  Her  lover 


I  le  watch  the  rain:  yea,  tltnt 
Hit  Hpswtn  firm;  he  tried  once  more 
To  touch  her  Hps;      itKhtd  out,  son 
And  vain  desire  so  loitied  r* 
The  poor  gray  lipa. 


87a  THE  MA] 


mm 


OF  mOUBa  POETBY 


But  the  vision  she  sees  through  the  drii^>ing  forest 
glades  is 

The  court  at  Paris :  those  six  nWBt 
The  gratings  of  the  Chatelei ; 
The  swift  Seine  on  some  rainy  day 
like  this,  and  people  standing  by. 
And  laughing,  while  my  weak  hands  try 
To  recollect  how  strong  men  swim. 

One  would  have  supposed  that  poetry  so  (mginal  and 

powerful  as  this  would  have  been  sure  of  recognition. 
The  book,  however,  fell  dead  from  the  press.  Little  of 
it  is  even  now  known  save  tiie  spirited  ballad,  Riding 
Together.  It  was  not  until  twenty-five  years  later  that 
the  significance  of  this  first  volume  of  Morris's  was 
realized.  By  that  time  he  had  reached  his  second  period ; 
he  had  outgrown  much  of  his  early  medisevalism,  tx  ladwr 
he  had  "  worked  out  for  himself  a  distia^  and  tndiviAial 
phrase  of  the  medixval  movement" 

Eight  years  after  his  first  volume  William  Morris  pub- 
Uihed  the  Lift  and  DetUh  of  fason,  and  tiiis  was  ftdkuwed 
in  1868  by  the  first  installment  of  die  Earthly  Paradiu. 
Of  the  first  poem  it  is  enougl-  to  s^y  that  it  is  a  noble 
epic,  full  of  sustained  narrative  power,  but  too  long,  and 
occasi<»ally  too  deficient  in  interest,  to  obtain  the  hii^iert 
htmours  of  the  efMC.  It  marics,  however,  his  emanc^par 
tion  from  the  spell  of  medixval  minstrelsy.  He  had  now 
entered  a  larger  world,  where  pleasant  sunlight  had  taken 
the  place  of  tragic  shadows  of  terror,  and  where  his 
genius  moved  freely  with  a  s«ise  of  conscious  power. 
It  was  evident  also  that  his  mind  had  developed  new  and 
unsuspected  qualities.  The  old  simphd^  and  directness 
are  here,  the  old  keen  sense  of  ctrfour  is  still  predomi- 
nant ;  but  there  is  sonwdiiag  new— a  fj^ft  kA  taifcr  otlar* 


WILLIAM  MQBRIB  878 

•ae^  »  power  of  woid-painting.  inimitably  fresh  and 
truthful,  a  sort  of  childlike  joy  in  dreams,  and  a  eom- 
spending  power  of  setting  them  forth,  which  interests 

!??  t   ^'^        "      ^""^  sort  of  child. 

U«  ddiglit  in  Nature.  He  sees  her  with  a  fresh  eye. 
and  tells  us  what  he  sees  in  the  simplest  phiwci.  We 
rarely  meet  an  epithet  which  surprises  us  by  the  keennen 
of  Its  observation,  or  the  intensity  of  its  vision,  but  we 
never  meet  a  description  of  Nature  that  is  not  truthful 
and  sincere.  We  are  never  startled  into  deUgfat,  but  we 
are  always  soothed  and  refreshed.  «  The  art  of  William 
Morris  said  Mary  Howitt,"is  Nature  itself,  rough  at 
tww,  but  quaint,  fresh,  and  dewy  beyond  anything  I 
ever  saw  or  felt  in  language." 

The  scenery  Morris  loves  to  paint,  and  which  he  paints 
bttt.  isfamiliar  sceneiy ;  the  dewy  meads,  the  orchards 
With  their  snowy  bloom,  the  white  mill  with  its  cozy 
quiet,  the  flower-gardeni  where  the  bee  mcks.  and  whera 
the  soft  wet  winds  murmur  in  the  leaves  of"  immemorial 
dms."  The  charm  of  such  pictures  is  in  their  unin- 
to»t»OBaI  art,  the  entire  absence  of  any  effort  to  be  fine. 
Ihe  breaking  day  has  been  described  &  thousand  times, 
and  often  the  most  labou-^d  descriptions  have  been  most 
admired;  yet  there  is  still  delight  to  be  found  in  so 
•invfe  a  sketch  as  this:  «»  «  ■© 

So  paned  die  vi^t :  the  moon  arose  and  grew. 
From  off  the  sea  a  httle  west  wind  blew. 
Rustling  the  garden  leaves  like  sudden  rain, 
Ab^  ere  the  »ooB  hi*'gnn  to  fall  again 
The  wind  grew  cold,  a  change  was  in  the  sky. 
And  in  deep  silence  did  the  dawn  draw  nigh. 

^wdeariy  is  the  colourist  seen  also  in  this  enmr— f^^a 


374  THE  1IAKKB8  OF  SHQUBH  F<»1BT 


TIm  MB  ta  MttiBg  ta     wMt,  dqr 

Is  clear  ud  hard,  and  no  cloud*  come  aayk 
The  golden  orb,  but  further  off  they  lie. 
Steel-fray  and  black,  with  edges  red  as  blood. 
And  uadcmtath  them  is  the  weltering  flood 

Of  SMM  b«f«  SM.  whose  tamMbf       >*  <^ 

Turn  restleu  sides  about,  are  black,  r  gray. 

Or  green,  or  glittering  with  the  gold  '"une: 

The  wind  has  fallen  now,  but  Mill    -  jmt 

The  mighty  army  moves,  as  if  to  .own 

This  lone  bare  rock,  whose  sheer  scarped  sides  of  bromi 

CMt  dftbt  weight  «f  wms  fai  doads  of  spny. 

Sometimet  tiiere  is  a  floh  of  faiMgiintive  ioleaiilgr,  M 

ia  tbe  lines : 

And  mdemeath  his  feet  Ae  noonSt  m 
Went  shepherding  his  wavw  ^Hiaideily ; 

but  such  touches  are  rare.  WtUtam  Morris  has  tlie  ia- 
fifmuctit  of  ihIi^  coiHinoiiplacc  plmscs  fai  %  way 
that  is  not  commonplace.  Tennyson  would  scarcely 
deign  to  use  so  well-worn  a  phrase  as  "the  golden  orb" ; 
he  would  probably  have  invented  sonAe  felidtottf  douUe 
acijective  whidi  would  strike  us  as  much  by  its  ingtm^ 
as  its  truth.  Morris  is  never  troubled  by  any  sudi 
scruples.  He  uses  the  handiest  phrases,  and  somehow 
he  makes  us  fed  that  they  are  after  all  the  truest  He  is 
always  {rictorial,  and  his  pictures  are  painted  w^  to 
great  a  breadth  that  the  absence  of  any  delicate  filigree 
work  of  ingenious  phrase-making  is  not  remarked.  Per- 
haps this  also  is  part  of  his  charm.  While  almost  every 
ofter  poet  of  our  day  aims  A  tiie  invcotifm  of  nair 
phrases  which  shall  allure  us  by  their  originality,  Morris 
is  simply  intf  nt  upon  telling  us  his  story ;  and  the  veiy 
absence  of  pretension  in  his  style  fills  us  with  a  new  de- 
]^l|it^  and  strikes  im  as  a  ubw  ^wdtet  ci  genius. 


WILLIAM  lfC»aiS  875 

or  heaven  and  hell  I  have  no  power  to  riw ; 

I  cannot  eaae  the  burden  of  year  km, 
Ormakeqvick-eaafaYdeathaHttiethtoff. 

Or  bring  again  the  pkaaure  of  pait  yean ; 

Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  foiget  your  tnn. 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  eu  My— 
The  idle  ii«gcr  of  ao  eovty  dqr. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  bom  out  of  my  due  time^ 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  ttn^ght? 

Let  it  suffice  me  that  aqr  BMnnniiy  ritym 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gM^ 
TriHng  a  Ule  not  too  importunate 

To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay. 

Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

InZ'^fli  he  boldly  claims  Geoffrey  Chaucer  as  his 
■Mrter,  aad  totmdi  tiie  same  note  of  gentle  pesaiinisiD  at 
Kguvii  the  fortunes  of  his  own  day.  From  a  moral 
point  of  view  this  pessimism  is  the  most  striking  thing 
abouf  -'11.  .^^rOfy  Paradise.  He  turns  to  dreamland, 
«c  tie  .  xvd  with  him  into  the  reahns  of  faery,  be- 
cau  -  jQoc  namvei  tiie  myMeiy  of  htmuui  Itfb^  aad 
believes  .hac  any  attempt  to  do  so  can  only  end  fa 
bewilderment  and  despair.  When  he  ventures  upon  any 
cooiMd  i^  is  simply  the  old  pagan  counsel  of  catpe  diem. 
The  thought  of  death  it  ahrays  with  him,  and  the  true 
wisdom  of  life  is  to  gather  the  roses  while  we  may. 
Death,  the  great  spoliator,  will  soon  be  upon  us,  and  the 
<fay»  wiB  come  all  too  soon  when  we  have  no  pleasure  fa 

ill  ■  ■■!  • 


In  the  white-flowered  hawthen  hnAs^ 
Love,  be  merry  for  my  sake : 
TMae  Oe  bfaMMwia  ny  hair, 


m  TBX  MAKKB8  OF  SHOUBH  FOSntY 


Km  M  where  I  am  most  fair— 
XiH  m»,  love  i  for  who  kaowedi 
What  diii«coBwth  after  (kadi  f 

Thk  k  tbe  note  wfaidi  totmds  tiuoughotit  llie  AMI^ 
AnMite.  Ogier  the  Dane*  at  the  bidding  of  the  &iry, 
renounces  life  just  when  its  consummation  is  at  hand,  and 
puts  aside  the  crown  of  Charlemaine,  saying : 

Lie  there,  O  crown  of  Charlemaine, 
Worn  by  a  mighty  man  and  worn  in  vain. 
BecauK  he  died,  and  all  the  things  he  did 
Were  changed  before  his  face  by  earth  was  hkL 

Ambition,  the  fierce  race  for  wealth,  the  battle  even 
fMT  what  aeem  to  be  great  causei  and  suffidiHE  ideak,  9sn 

all  in  vain,  and  end  in  disillusionment  and  sorrow.  It  is 
better  still  to  dream.  In  dreams  everything  is  beautiful ; 
in  actual  life  the  sordid  and  the  vulgar  intrude  at  every 
turn.  It  ii  better  sttll  to  Afcam,  became  dreams  never 
disappoint  us.  There,  at  least,  we  can  forget  the  shadow 
of  death  and  wander  in  the  meads  of  a  perpetual  spring ; 
and,  so  far  as  dreams  bring  the  jaded  mind  refreshment 
and  fdeme.  It  ia  wise  to  dream.  The  imaginative  fiuailty 
needs  exereiie  as  well  as  the  practical,  and  no  full  or  fair 
life  can  be  lived  where  it  is  stunted  or  ignored.  And  we 
are  only  too  ready  to  hail  a  singer  who  bids  us 

Forget  six  counties  overhung  with  smoke, 

Foifet  dtt  aaorting  steam  and  piston-stridK, 

Forget  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town ; 

Think  rather  of  the  pack-horse  on  the  down. 

And  dream  of  London— small,  and  white,  and  clean— 

The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens  green. 

But,  after  all,  he  is  not  the  highest  poet  who  only  bids 
us  dream.  The  highest  poet  is  he  who,  knowing  life  and 
deaft,  bids  us  not  ignore  tiie  one  nor  foar  the  otiber,  bvA 


wiLUAM  womm  vn 

prepMW  «  cyri^y  for  both      the  impintkm  of  his 
courage  and  the  mmlty  of  hte  AdUi.    TUi  WiUlwn 
Moms  does  not  do  in  his  greatest  poems,  and  hM  aol 
"""^      limitations  of  his  nature 
■«l  eoofcHLS  his  inabiUty  to  sing  the  songs  which 
humanity  has  ever  couiited  thtaoUM.  He hu  left  to 
others  the  battles  of  faith  and  phfloMphy.    He  has 
■ought  only  to  be  the  singer  of  an  empty  day,  the 
mmmr  of  dreams,  in  whose  bright  spells  weary  men 
may  wt  surhile,  and  tliose  wiK»  am  tmA  by  life's 
disasters  may  find  a  brief  refreshment  and  repose.  Nor 
»  this  a  slight  aim  nor  a  contemptible  achievement.  It 
■  MiBetiihig  to  have  amid  the  fierce  strain  of  modem 
life  one  poet  who  dost  not  exdie,  but  soothe  o;  tHw 
does  not  make  us  think,  but  bids  us  enjoy;  who  lurat  m 
pack  again  into  the  simpUdties  of  childhood,  and  who, 
in  ai  his  writings,  has  not  written  a  page  that  a  child 
might  not  ra«l»aiid  haswritleii  many  with  so  lucid  aa 
art  that  a  child  might  enjoy  and  comprehend  then. 

Of  the  third  period  of  William  Morris  it  is  only 
aece«iy  to  add  a  sentence  or  two.  The  dreamer  of 

the  Afrt/jr at  hst  wdw  fttw  Ms  dWMn.  and 

casts  away  his  spells,  and  breaks  ha  msiir  muid.  Ha 
discovers  that  the  nineteenth  century  is  not  an  empty  day, 
aor  is  it  a  time  when  any  man  who  has  helpful  hands' 
may  dare  to  beiifleormiservicetWe.  The  social  prob- 
lem, which  is  the  great  and  real  problem  of  our  time, 
powerfully  affected  Morris's  mature  life.  With  his  social- 
istic harangues  at  street  corners,  his  "wrestles  with 
policemen,  or  wraai^  with  obtuse  magistrates  about 
freedom  of  speech,"  we  hav«  Mifaing  to  do  here.  Hem 
^«  only  to  deal  with  his  work  in  liteiature,  and 
wWi  Ite  OBcqptioa  of  a  few  spirited  verses  such  as  these: 


! 


378  THE  MAKERS  OF  SNQUBU  rOETBY 


Thtn  »  mAii  thaU  work  and  hMMrit  hh%  nd  M^liM  in  *• 

dMd*  ct  Us  haad, 
Nor  yat  mow  boaw  ia  the  tvtn,  too  fkint  and  weary  to  ttand. 
For  that  which  the  worker  winoeth       then  be  hb  indeed. 
Nor  ihaU  half  be  reaped  for  nothing  by  hfaa  ttiat  lowed  no 

■eed. 

Tlw&  all  miKg  aad  tMit  ihatt  btMfn»  ud  mbmvi  iImII  mqt 

■MB  CfWC 

For  riches  that  urn  far  wMag  bat  to  tw»r»Mt>dfcf 

•lave, 

the  socialistic  propaganda  has  gained  nothing  by  hii 
poetic  art  Perhaps  it  was  too  late  in  life  for  Morris  to 
catch  ttt  true  lyric  fire  of  tiie  revnhitionary  poet  It  is, 
however,  profoundly  interesting  to  remark  how  the  huge 
shadow  of  this  social  problem  has  been  gradually  pro- 
jected over  the  entire  field  of  literature,  politics,  and 
phflosoplqr. 

It  is  by  his  earlier  work  in  mediaeval  romance,  and  his 
Earthly  Parodist  that  Morris  will  be  remembered.  G>n- 
ceming  the  latter  it  is  but  uttering  a  commonplace  tos^ 
tiiat  no  writer  since  Chaucer  has  disph^ed  so  masterly  a 
power  of  continuous  narrative,  or  1ms  rested  his  fame  so 
completely  upon  the  arts  of  simplicity  and  luddify.  In 
this  he  occupies  a  unique  place  among  modem  poets. 
He  hM  imilntan,  but  lie  Iw  no  real  competitor.  He 
has  drunk  deep  of  the  well  of  English  undefiled,  and  has 
again  taught  the  old  lesson  of  the  potency  of  plain  and 
idiomatic  Saxon  as  an  unrivalled  vehicle  of  poetic  utter- 
ance. Ifhehiaddedaoftay  newtothc  wealth  rfnwtrical 
expression  he  has  enriched  modem  literature  by  the  re- 
coining  of  ancient  forms  of  speech,  and  by  the  recurrence 
to  the  free  simplicity  of  our  older  poetry.  If  he  falls  fu 
bdiind  RflMCtti  fai  llie  art  of  bemtHbl  e:q)resBkMi,  and 
behind  MAmm  '»  vehtmtnce  and  lyric  fire,  he  is  ftn 


WILLIAM  MO&RIB  «f» 

•nd  breadth  of  style,  and  has  a  nobler  inventivtiMHfliida 
J^okwmer  view  of  life.  To  be  the  modem  Chaucerit  a 
fcr^rwlw-  tiling  tiian  to  be  an  Englisb  Baudelaire  or 
VHoa,  tiiV^  *«M"CliM«riwi  Ml  Inllmtely  greater 
«M  tiian  either,  and  carriad  in  hk  mim  aad  numv 
Mtaw  the  secret  seed  of  a  more  enduring  immortality. 

WirSi*^.?!!?  approach  to  Chaucer 

wWA  tht  irinataiulh  century  can  produce,  or  tiiat  any 
iatervemng  period  has  prot^uced.  TUt  k  nrack  tony, 

!I!L?L^"®*  *°  «"*or  of  the  Life 

^iMmtk  af/asMiad  the  Ear/Jkfy  Paradise.  Separated 

»  UiV  «•  ^  •  w«  atwldi  of  time,  diflerent  as  tiiey  are 
by  so  much  as  five  centuries  of  civilixatfMi  cm  nnMttlim 
of  diflerence,  still  tiiey  are  aUke  in  spirit;  and  Chaucer  ii 
fadeed  tiie  master  of  William  Morris's  art,  and  Iw  tkn 
MMIMU  Mid  MecMifU  or  kit  diKiplcs. 


XXXV 


CONCLUDING  SURVEY 

WE  have  now  matte  oundves  acquainted  with 
those  poets  of  modern  literature  who  stand 
first  both  in  force  and  achievement  In  the 
growth  of  later  English  poetry  one  thing  is  very  marked, 
viz.,  Ae  steady  development  of  excellence  in  technique. 
False  rhymes  and  halting  cadences  are  noloi^fer  pardon- 
able  offences.  As  readers  have  become  more  cultured, 
the  standard  of  technical  perfection  has  been  greatly 
raised.  It  is  hardly  an  exaggeration  to  say,  that  during 
the  last  thirty  years  many  men  and  women  have  written 
poetry  which,  had  it  appeared  thirty  years  earlier,  would 
have  attracted  general  attention,  and  have  laid  the  foun- 
dations <rf^  a  solid  fame.  It  is  not  necessary  to  drag  from 
Hidr  obscurity  tile  Hi^ie)»  ami  tile  Pyes  <tfewUar  gener- 
ations :  one  may  quote  such  names  as  those  of  James 
Montgomery  and  Kirke  White,  both  poets  of  a  true  gift, 
as  instances  of  writers  who  achieved  a  reputation  which 
the  more  exacting  oMidttioos  of  lata-  Uteratnre  would 
have  made  trebly  difHcult  or  altogether  impossible. 
And  the  influence  of  this  higher  standard  of  excellence 
has  been  retrospective  also.  The  names  of  many  men 
famous  in  their  generation  have  afanost  dropped  out  of 
sight  There  has  been  a  general  displacement  of  reputa- 
tion. Thus  it  happens  that  a  history  of  poetry  written 
fifty  years  ago  would  have  given  extended  notice  to 
may  writers  who  can  receive  only  casual  notice  to-day. 

m 


CONCLUDING  SURVEY  881 

Thomas  Moore  is  one  of  these  writers.   Moore,  in  his 
my,  was  one  of  die  most  popular  of  poets,  and  one  of 

^    the  best  paid.  Miwli  of  UmputalioB 

,„j_jJJ"   was  due  to  his  asKJdation  in  the  popular 

  judgment  with  greater  men  than  himself; 

mudi,  of  course,  to  his  own  conspicuous  ability.   He  was 
witty,  genial,  and  graceful,  and  in  his  l^hter  moods  it  tlie 
most  pleasant  of  satirists.   As  a  lyrical  poet  of  a  certtia 
order  he  has  never  been  surpassed.    Many  of  his  songs, 
espedaUy  his  aalioaal  and  patriotic  songs,  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  wedded  to  exquisite  music,  and  enteied  at 
once  into  the  general  memory.    They  have  remained 
popular  through  aU  changes  of  taste  and  thought,  and  are 
fflcriy  to  do  so  for  many  generations  yet  to  come.  But 
Moore's  was,  upon  the  whole,  a  light  and  shallow  nature, 
deficient  in  masculine  force.   His  poetry  reveals  the  same 
defect   Mi'ch  of  it—Lalla  Rookk,  for  example— offends 
«•  fay  ill  giitlering  artifidaUty.   It  is  Uttle  read  to^v 
and  is  virtual  ted.  ^' 

To  include  Southey  among  the  great  poets,  and  omit 
Landor,  appears  very  like  a  ghiring  faUuie  of  justice ;  but 

w.ii«rs»>«  tfa«ju»tificatio«iifoiMdii»U«lort«« 
Trtrr      confession:  "Poetry  was  always  tuf 
VU-mL      «n»usement,  prose  my  study  and  my 
fa»*^J"*»'"   Landor,  if  not  among  the 
greatest  poets,  had  moneata  of  siagular  greataess ;  aad 
it  is  something  of  a  scandal  that  his  poetry  is  not  better 
known.   In  his  two  longest  poems,  Gebir  axid  Count 
/mHm,  titere  are  passages  of  extraordinary  power,  and 
even  splendour.   Daittt  hkmiM  hm  aomdy  pielarad  ftm 
scenery  of  the  infernal  world  with  moti  hMaaiil^  Ami 
Landor  in  the  foUowii^  passage : 


SSa  THE  MAKEBS  OF  POLISH  FCHBIBT 


A  rhrer  rolling  in  its  bed. 
Not  rapid — that  would  rouse  the  wretched  soulif 
Not  calmly — that  would  lull  them  to  repose ; 
But  with  dull,  weary  lapses  it  still  heaved 
Billows  of  bale,  heard  low,  but  heard  aba. 

In  Count  Julian  there  is  also  a  passage,  comparing 
Julian  with  the  mountain  eagle,  which  De  Quince/  le* 
garded  as  one  of  the  finest  in  all  poetry : 

No  airy  and  light  passion  stirs  abroad 
To  ruffle  or  to  soothe  him  ;  all  are  quelled 
Beneath  a  mightier,  sterner  stress  (rf'mind. 
WakeAil  he  sits,  and  lonely,  and  unmoved. 
Beyond  the  arrows,  shouts,  and  views  of  iBMi; 
As  oftentimes  an  eagle,  ere  the  sun 
Throws  o'er  the  Taryhy  earth  Ms  euly  ny. 
Stands  solitary,  stands  immovable 
Upon  some  highest  cliff,  and  rolls  his  eye. 
Clear,  constant,  unobservant,  unabascd. 
In  the  cold  light,  above  the  dews  of  mom. 

Many  of  Landor's  lyrics,  lightly  as  the/  are  touched, 
possess  an  almost  faultless  excellence  of  workmanship, 
and  a  peculiar  duurm  of  simplicity  and  clearnew.  He 
who  once  takes  kindly  to  Lander  will  find  in  him  a  com> 
rade  capable  of  the  greatest  things.  In  sweetness,  tender- 
ness, and  classic  gravity,  in  a  power  of  producing  in  the 
mind  an  emotion  moi«  (rffcen  caused  tiie  beai^ftil 
austerity  of  great  sculpture  than  by  literature,  in  oc- 
casional Miltonic  pomp  of  line  and  splendour  of  imagery, 
Landor  excels ;  but  he  could  also  be  careless  and  eccen- 
trie,  and  his  finest  passages  are  fi«quently  preceded  or 
followed  b/  poor  or  turgid  lines.  It  may  be  said  that 
there  is  more  pure  gold  in  twenty  pages  of  Landor  than 
in  all  the  poetry  of  Southey ;  but  there  are  other  matters 
abo  which  have  to  be  comidered.  Whatever  we  may 


OONCLUDINQ  SURVEY 


888 

think  of  Southey  to-day.  in  his  own  day  he  occupied  a 
place  of  grat  repute,  and  the  histo^r  of  modern  poetnr 
cannot  whoUy  pas.  him  over.  Oa  the  other  hanX 
Landor.  as  we  have  seen,  never  made  his  poetry  the 
mainpiupose  of  his  life ;  he  elected  to  be  judged,  not  by 
hm  poetiy.  but  his  prose.   I  have  thought  it  best,  there- 

Z^'  ^Hr  T*''"'^*'  ^'^  ^  prose-writm  (vide 

m  Makers  of  English  Prose)  instead  of  with  the  poets 
This  is  his  rightful  place,  which  he  would  have  wish<id 
to  occupy,  and  to  which  he  has  claims  manifold.  Never- 
theless, it  is  but  justice  to  remember,  that  though  Landor-s 
best  poetry  could  be  included  in  a  very  smaU  o 
yet  It  ranks  among  the  best  of  modem  literatum 

In  William  Blake,  an  artist  and  poet  whose  life 
Wntta.  BUM  Crabbe's.  we  have  a 

I7I7.MI7.         *^        ^  the  genius  to  be  loved. 

Songs iflmoetnetzxiA  Songs  of 
^Pmtnce  are  among  the  imperishable  treasum  of 
Engl^hpoetry.   He  writes  like  an  inspired  child,  with  a 

ST  K?^.  ?  *  ^^th  of  uncoordinated 

thought,  with  an  indefiwdrfe  charm  and  g«ce.  fuU  of 
gWur  and  magic.    His  art  is  instinctivT-^ 

V«^L  L°u°""'  ^""^  r*'"  *°  ^y™'^'  ^  indifferent 
v«y  few  of  lus  poems  have  the  technical  correctness  oT 
hk  feiBota  Uaes  upon  7}lr  Tigtr. 

"Hger,  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forest!     the  night, 
^fl^sA  iomioital  baod  or  eye 
Could  fnne  thy  teiM  qraawtiy  I 
In  whit  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aqiitef 
What  the  huMl  date  ssfae  the  iier 


m  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

And  what  dMdder,  and  what  art 

Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And,  when  thjr  heart  b^an  to  beat, 
WhM  dread  luuid  and  what  tead  fMt> 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anril?  what  dread  grup 
Dan  to  deadly  tenon  da^? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spean, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 

But  there  is  scarcely  a  poem  of  his,  scarcely  a  couplet, 
that  is  not  pregnant  with  imaginative  force.  The  very 
nmpUdty  of  hU  verse  (fecetves  m,  and  retards  tiie  im- 
pression of  its  real  philosophic  depth  and  frequent  pro- 
phetic force.  Certa'ily  Blake's  contemporaries  never 
so  much  as  gave  him  casual  recognition.  If  they  thought 
of  him  at  all  it  t»s  as  a  madman,  who  produced  extra, 
ordinary  designs  which  might  pass  for  art,  accompanied 
by  verses  that  were  at  once  puerile  and  incoherent  No 
doubt  Blake  was,  as  Emerson  once  said  of  himself, 

gently  mad."  He  dreamed  dreams  and  saw  visiMS  aU 
his  days.  He  walked  in  the  brightness  of  his  dreams, 
profoundly  careless  of  fame,  or  even  of  success,  so  long 
as  he  could  earn  his  daily  bread.  His  death,  like  his  life, 
was  dialed  in  the  same  visionary  g^ary,  "  He  said  he 
was  going  to  see  that  country  he  had  all  his  life  wished 
to  see,  and  expressed  himself  happy,  hoping  for  salvation 
through  Jesus  Christ.  Just  before  he  died,  his  counte- 
aaaot  became  Uir,  his  eyes  brigfafenied,  and  he  burst  out 
into  singing  of  the  things  he  saw  in  heaven.  "  Another 
account  tells  us  that  "  he  composed  and  uttered  songs  to 
his  Maker,  so  sweetly  to  the  ear  of  his  Catherine  that, 


OOKCLUDINO  SUKVJSY  S8S 

^she  stood  to  hear  him.  he.  looking  upon  her  most 
^ectoonately.  said.  'My  beloved,  thqr  ^Tnot  mine 

which  aa  BWce's  lyncal  poetry  makes  upon  us  It  is  a 
gust  of  pure  motion  coming  from  unknown  regions, 
of  which  he  .s  the  mere  vehicle.    He  is  an  eternal  cWld. 

:^d p^rudl*" 

'^-.^^  P""^"        achievement  is  Philip 

James  Bailey.  Bailey  is  one  of  the  most  undeservedly 

nUf  Mm»»  Balk,  P°«*«     our  generation.  This 

jyg^        IS  the  more  curious  because  when  hit 

tfi,«  ^"^^         published,  ia 

1839,  »t  was  hailed  with  almost  world-wide  applause. 
Rossett,   read  it  .gain  and  yet  again.-  and  spoke  of  it  in 
the  highest  terms.   Many  very  competent  critics  did  not 
hesitate  to  compare  the  author  of  Fesfyts  with  Shake- 
speare. Milton,  and  Goethe.    Possibly  this  comparison 
was  suggested  as  much  by  the  nature  of  the  theme^s  the 
quality  of  the  work,  for  F.stus  is  another  rendering  of  tl  e 
great  Faust  legend,  and.  it  must  be  confessed,  a  splendid 
rewtenng.   It  is  the  more  extraordinaiy  as  the  work  of  a 
very  yo«ng  man,  for  Bailey  was  not  more  than  r.enty- 
«Mir  when  It  was  published.  The  openhig  lines- 

Eternity  hatti  snowed  Hs  years  tipoB  diem. 
And  Ae  white  winter  of  their  age  is  come. 
n»e  World  and  an  its  worlds;  and  aU  shaU end— 
toodi  sublimity.    The  lines  r- 

We  Hire  in  deeds,  not  vears;  in  thoughts,  not  biMtiist 

m  feehngs.  not  in  figures  on  a  dial 

^'i!SL"""*^**y**"»-^«^-   He  most  lire. 
Who  thfaksBMit.  fceb  the  noblest,  acto  the  best- 


886  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


have  probably  been  quoted  more  frequently  in  tiie  pulptt 
during  the  last  fifty  years  than  any  others  that  could  be 
named.  But  the  whole  poem  is  full  of  noble  thoughts 
finely  expressed,  and  has  many  of  the  qualities  of  truly 
great  poetry. 

The  most  curious  thing  about  Mr.  Bailey  is  that  he  has 
written  nothing  of  note  since  Festus.  He  presents  an 
extraordinary  case  of  arrested  development  A  great 
and  sudden  success  animates  some  men  and  petrifies 
others.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  author  of  Festus  felt  that 
he  had  done  his  utmost  in  his  first  poem,  and  never  had 
the  coun^  to  attempt  to  surpass  himself.  He  has  spent 
his  entire  life  in  working  over  his  one  great  poem,  re- 
vising and  adding,  till  it  has  now  grown  into  an  enormous 
volume.  Thus,  The  Angel  and  the  World,  a  poem  pub- 
lished in  1850,  is  now  incorporated  in  Festus.  This  is 
scarcely  to  the  advanti^  of  the  poem,  which  in  its 
original  form  possessed  many  dramatic  qualities  which 
are  quite  obscured  in  later  editions.  It  has  now  become 
a  somewhat  disorderly  treasure-house  of  poetic  ideas  and 
material,  among  which  much  rubbish  may  be  found,  but 
still  more  of  excellent  work,  characterized  by  rarity  and 
beauty.  Some  of  the  choruses  are  espedally  fine 
notaUy  the  one  beginning  — 

They  c&oie  from  the  East  and  the  West— 
and  ending— 

And  onto,  and  oot  o(  the  Lamb 
Shan  be  die  ncrifice. 

The  main  religious  idea  unfolded  in  Festus  is  universal- 
ism,  now  far  more  popular  tium  in  1839,  when  it  was 
r^;arded  as  a  dangerous  nov^.  Mr.  Bailey  is  far  from 


OOWCLDDING  SURVEY 


88? 

Mf  a  SlMlnq,m  or  a  Goethe,  and  his  reputation  has 
g«ady  suflered  by  the  ext«viig«ice  of  adiktion  wUh 
which  he  was  fi„t  greeted.  But  he  i.  a  t^^^ 
wide  powers  and  noble  achievement 

Of  what  was  once  called  the  ^osmMKe  SekiuJ 

Poetry  yery  littl.  '^ce  remains.  tT^^pJ^ 
t9*my  MtM    n»o<«c."  first  applied  by  Carlyle  to  Byron, 
1114.1174      J«  ««««  up  by  Professor  Aytoun,  v  ho 
fixed  it  as  a  term  of  reproach  upon  Bailey 
Sydney  Dobell.  and  Al-xander  Smith.the 

his  Fin^h^    iff  °I  '''^"^  mercilessly  in 

Z.uT        ^"t^^-ywa,  unfortunate,  for  BaSey 
has  little  m  common  with  DobeU  and  Snrith.  Nor 

S^l^  «  Smith  we«f«epoS^ 

treatment  from  a  nriof 
Aytoun'.  emfaowe.  DobeU's  poetry  has  died  W  to 

w^uccess.  But, f  few  or  none  read  his  je^««,heh.. 
aeated  an  impenshable  monument  for  himself  in  one 
«mpte  but  magnfficent  hlhd.  Xriik  of  RavelsL 
ballad  «  worthy  to  rank  with  Keaf  /i  SilU  ^ji^ 
Itev«  surpasses  it  in  its  power  of  prod'SSg^^^:^^ 
rion  ofwanland  haunting  myste^r.  in  its  siLle^^ 
l«Wiri»«JCKlence.  to  ib  suggested  tragedy. 

The  mummr  of    ?  monmiag  ghott. 
That  keepa  die  thadowy  kine, 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  I " 

Ravelitonl  Ravelston! 
The  merry  path  dutt  leads 

A«  ftriden  morning  hill, 
And  ttoo*  Ae  sOvtr  meads. 


S88  THE  BfAKERB  OF  ENOUSH  POETRY 


Ravelcton !   Ravelston  ! 

The  itik  benMth  the  tree. 
The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  Uiie, 

The  tong  that  iang  the  i 


Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  cane 

Comes  evening  down  the  glade, 
And  still  there  rits  a  moonshine  ghoat 
Where  sat     MuaMae  oMid. 

Her  misty  hair  it  Mat  and  Mi, 
She  keeps  the  shadowy  Idne  ; 

"Ob.  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  eemwt  of  ^  Hael  ** 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 

The  stUc  i*  loM  and  eeM, 
Th*  boraie  dMi  goes  bi(iiibBng  by 

Say  nought  that  can  he  told. 


She  makes  her  immemorial  moan. 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kiae ; 

••  Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! " 

In  this  brief  poem  we  have  a  fuller  indication  of  DobeU's 
genuine  poetic  gift  than  in  all  the  rest  of  his  poetry  put 
togetiier.  It  li  a  poem  that  Hit  greatest  poels  in^^ 
have  been  proud  to  claim. 

Alexander  Smith  achieved  a  popularity  which  never 
came  to  Dobell.  His  Life-Drama  had  an  extraordinary 
succen.  Incredible  as  it  appears  now,  yet  the  time  was 
when  Smith  was  considered  Tena)r8on's  most  serious  rival, 
and  was  supposed  by  his  two  generous  critics  to  have 
eclipsed  him.  It  was  no  doubt  the  absurdity  of  this 
adulation  that  inspired  Aytoun  with  the  idea  of  turning 
hb  pretensions  into  ridicule.   Yet  in  the  l^t-Dtama^ 


OONCI.UDING  SURVEY  889 
h^wwe  at  least  as  conspicuous  as  the  faults.  Smith 

sUU  more  of  them  strained  and  crude.  A«S«Jie'S 
whtt  it  meuit  is  found  in  the  lines :  « 

The  bridegroom 
Is  toying  with  the  shore,  his  wedded  Mdt. 
Awl.  ia  the  fnUness  of  his  Bttfriage  joy. 
He  deconlet  her  tawny  brow  with  shells. 
Retires  a  space  to  see  bow  fair  she  hwh. 
Then,  proud,  runs  up  to  loss  her. 

^^ri^^fjL^        ^  *  *is  could  be 

rSvl^^"**^  ButSmith«,metimes  hits  upon 
*««auy  beautiful  image,  as  in  the  lines: 

That  night  thro*  one  blue  gulf  prafcnd. 
Begirt  by  many  a  cloudy  crag. 

The  mooa  emue  leaping  Bke  a  stag, 
AndoneslarBhealioHad. 

I«  a  coatemporafy  of  Alexander  Smitfa'a  DavM  Rm^ 

the  author  of  7^  Lu^^e.  TZ^J^^^ 

genuine  power,  and  of  greater  distinc- 
eon.  Gray's  is  an  oaten  pipe  with  few 

What  .s  most  noticeable  is  the  native  sweetnc^^fc£Z!- 
"^tt^freshness  and-ease.  and  tST^ttfhr^' 
poems,  written  when  the  shadow  of  death  lay  heavy  on 

tlZln'  T  H  ^"  thought^form^and 

expression.  And  .t  must  be  remembered  also  that  he 
died  m  his  twenty-iourth  year,  and  accoaipBdiediSwtte 


I 


^1 


m  THE  MAKSR8  OF  EHOLIBH  POXTBY 


did  aarid  m  mninaamait  wholly  unfovoyiaUtto  literary 
dtvdo|MMiit>  TUs  is  how  ht  dncftei  Ui  Itfis 

Poor  meagre  life  is  mine,  meafre  and  poor  I 

Rather  a  piece  of  childhood  thrawaawaj ; 
Ab  adwBbfailoB  fliint  { dw  oveitm 

To  stifled  music ;  year  that  ends  in  May : 
The  sweet  beginning  of  a  tale  unknown ; 

A  dream  onspokn ;  pnaiae  nfwHtBtd ; 
A  morning  with  no  noon,  a  rose  unblown  — 

All  its  deep  rich  vermilion  crushed  and  lolled 
r  th'  b«d  bjr  tm. 

A  piece  of  childhood  Gray's  life  was  in  its  unsophisti- 
cated sincerity  of  aim ;  but  it  also  has  the  child's  fresh- 
ness of  emotion  and  joy  of  vision.  The  Luggie,  the 
wonder  of  the  snow,  Htue  wikeniag  <rf  spring,  his  home, 
his  mother^— these  nudce  the  Miple  <tf  his  po^.  As  he 
lies  dying  he  sighs: 

O  God  I  for  one  clear  day,  a  snowdrop,  and  tweet  afar! 

It  is  in  his  nature-pictures  that  Gray's  finest  power  is 
displayed.  Not  even  Keats  has  described  spring  widi  a 
more  exquisite  but^  of  mosic  '^lan  tiiis: 

Now,  whik  the  long-ddayfaig  ash  awumsi 

The  delicate  April  gresn,  and,  loud  and  clear. 
Through  ton  cool,  yellow,  mellow  twilight  glooms, 

The  thrush's  song  enchants  the  captive  ear; 
Now.  whik  a  shower  is  ideasaat  in  the  falUnf  » 

Stfarfaqr  dw  atOl  perfume  diat  wakes  around ; 
Mow,  that  doves  mourn,  and  from  the  distance  caUBf, 

The  cuckoo  answers,  with  a  sov'reign  sound, — 
Coow.  widi  Ay  native  heart,  O  true  and  tried! 

But  leave  all  books ;  for  what  with  converse 
Flavoured  with  Attic  wit,  the  time  shall  glide 

On  smoothly,  as  a  river  floweth  by. 
Or  as  on  stately  pinion  through  the  gray 
Eveidng  the  culver  cuts  his  liquid  way. 


OQirGLUDINO  SURVEY  891 

^'^^y  •onnet  is  the  best  known  of  Gray's  writ- 
"»g«.brt  thtra  j(  OM  other  poem,  quoted  by  Robert 
Buchanan,  which  in  a  quite  extraordinary  dcm  eon- 
^es  all  Gray's  qualities  at  their  best-his  depth  of  aflec- 
passion  for  nature,  his  exquisite  seniiitiveness  of 
Mng  and  m»t«7  or  PW  Tli.  lines  were  written 
at  Torquay,  one  of  the  places  to  wUA  lie  «M  liat  bir 
generosity  of  his  friends  in  the  ymt  te  wUdi  ht 
died,  and  are  dated  January,  1861. 

Come  te  me,  O  my  mother  1  come  to  me. 

Thine  own  aon  slowly  dying  far  away  I 

Thn'  the  moitft  wayi  of  the  wide  octMi,  MMm 

9r  gnat  tevWUe  winds,  cone  nately  sUps 

To  this  calm  bay  for  quiet  anchorage ; 

They  come,  they  rest  awhile,  they  go  away, 

B«t,  O  my  mothsr,  never  oomMt  thon  f 

Tht  8i»w  is  round  thy  dwelling,  the  white  mow. 

That  cold,  soit  revelation,  pure  as  Ught, 

And  the  pine-q>ire  is  mystically  frfaigsd, 

jLaced  with  encrusted  sUyer.  Here— aai»|«. 

Tfce  wfaMn*  is  dtcrepit.  under-born, 

A  llper  with  no  power  but  his  disease. 

Why  am  I  from  thee,  mother,  iar  <h»  diee  ? 

Far  from  tiM  frost  enchantment,  and  As  woods 

Jewelled  from  bough  to  bough?  Oh,  terns.  mw^mI 

O  river  in  the  valley  of  my 

Wth  mazy-winding  motion  intiieale. 

Twisting  thy  deathless  music  underneath 

Thy  pdisiied  iee-work— must  I  never  more 

Bejold  thee  with  familiar  eyes,  and  watch 

Thy  b^aty  changing  with  the  changing  day. 

"f  o^^m  eenslatt  to-tte  constant  change  ? 

Smfy  there  is  not  a  moie  human  and  hcart-movin£ 
cry  in  modern  poetry  than  this.  Nor  woyM  it  be  ei^ 

poets,  any  lines  written 
l>elote  their  twenty-fourth  year  more  remarkable  for 


8H  THE1IAKBB8  0F 


JBB  FOBIBT 


grace,  finish,  mdod^,  mA  tmotioMl  cyptmtai  than 


On  the  BMM  of  AfilMr  Hugh  Qough  a  longer  pause 
iiaweMafy.  It  is  l»  who  is  coamemoialiHa  Ataoldfli 
Ailtaf  Itaife  CtoMfe  *  P°^'*  monument  to  a  singu- 

tSSm/^  noble-minded  poet  Clough  was  a 
man  of  grant  sweetness  of  nature,  of  fine 
wit,  of  ample  scholarship,  of  true  poetic  instinct,  but  his 
life  was  clouded  by  persistent  melancholy.  This  was 
mainly  due  to  the  unsettlement  of  his  religious  beliefs. 
One  of  his  finest  poems,  ti^dch  nMMt  poignantly  ex- 
presses this  condition  of  mind,  is  Us  JSukr  wftfa 
its  oiten-quoted  lines : 

Eat.  drink,  and  die,  ferwe  are  wul*  beieaved : 
Of  all  the  creatures  under  heaven'*  wide  cope 
We  are  most  hopelew.  who  had  once  moie  hsps. 

And  most  beiieflet-.  that  had  most  believed. 

In  his  Dipsychus,  a  longer  and  semi-dramatic  poem,  the 
-  ^me  doubts  are  expressed  in  a  spirit  of  mingled  acumen 
id  imqr.  The  poem  has  also  its  brig^iter  moments  and 
i  lighter  themes,  and  is  marind  by  a  passicmate  love  of 
nature  which  at  times  overcomes  the  melancholy  of  the 
poet's  mind.  Tlie  happiest  of  poets  could  not  have 
written  more  delightfully  of  the  gondola  than  Clough  in 
the  lines  comraeadng — 

Afloat ;  we  move.    Delicious  I  Al^ 
What  else  is  like  the  gondola  ? 
This  level  floor  of  Hqtdd  gbM 
Begins  beneath  us  swift  to  past. 
It  goes  as  though  it  went  alone. 
By  some  impulsion  of  its  own. 
(How  light  it  moves,  how  softly  I  Ah, 
Woe  an  things  like  the  gondolei) 


CONCLUDING  SURVEY 

But  *  page  or  two  later  we  have  the 
"-n  «r  lk«  •tlf-tonnented  thinker  ; 

lie  weiM  it  very  odd  wt  ate, 
J»tde»ticowpirtMirtl,. 
BttiaewtewealiifiM, 

Ged  weeX  tad  we  cttt't  Mud  I 


Bdaf  coMtettMt.  kcta't  be  lia 

To  take  it  M I  find  h  ; 

Tht  pleuaie.  to  takt  pltatora  ia: 
^9ite.«qraeti»Bbdit 

The  utmott  hone  af  ^       . . 

Urn  ao  further  tittatiiii:       ^-""^  " 

Twfll  »U  be  weU;  no  need  of  cue : 
Thoitgh  hoir  it  will,  and  wbea.  aad  ~\mt 
WtMiinotietaadeaa'tdtcbBe. 
IJJ'"  ?f ''••^    tpite  of  thou^ 
nritaot  fai  vaia.  aad  not  for  aowhL 
The  wind  it  blowi.  the  diteitgatir 
Though  when  aad  wUthtr  a»  oae  kaoae, 

aough'8  longest  poem,  and  the  best  tpedme.  of 

fine  passj^es  to  be  found  in  his  Mori  Afag^^ 

Pcri^p.  the  moet  interesting  of  t     lesser  .„51 

yet  one  is  cowdout  ooattanth^      o»«»i.-     •  ' 

..  d^„.  «„c.ly  what  i.  n^rbH^'J^ 
artist  Pn.^.  r^  "*"*®*^*«y«^*  great 
"WW  but  acquired;  uMd  with  tIdU.  and  oftm  i^ 


m  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


cra^Homus  iMiUtanoe  of  cffisct,  but  imrdy  witii  absolute 

mastery,  never  with  the  inevitable  art  and  instinct  of  the 
great  poet.  He  can  invigourate,  he  can  fortify,  he  can 
charm  the  mind,  but  he  lacks  the  authentic  spell  by  which 
tiie  poet  takes  possession  of  die  heart  But  he  did  not 
aim  at  touching  the  heart ;  his  poetry  is  mainly  addressed 
to  the  intellect,  and  he  is  peculiarly  the  poet  of  culture 
and  of  reason.  Not  his  least  significance  in  English 
poetry  is  that  he  interpreted  with  singular  sensitiveness 
and  truth  a  period  of  great  intellectual  and  spiritual  crisis. 
Russell  Lowell  has  said  of  him,  "  We  have  a  foreboding 
that  Clough,  imperfect  as  he  was  in  many  respects,  and 
dying  before  he  had  subdued  his  sensitive  temperament 
to  the  sterner  requirements  of  his  art,  will  be  thought  a 
hundred  years  hence  to  have  been  the  truest  expression 
in  verse  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  tendencies,  the 
doubt  and  stni|^  towards  settled  convictions,  of  die 
period  in  which  he  lived."  This  is,  of  course,  to  judge 
poetry  rather  from  the  moral  than  the  artistic  standpoint; 
what  is  perhaps  more  likely  to  keep  his  poetry  fresh  is 
its  rare  quality  of  humour,  which  is  all  the  more  attract- 
ive by  reason  of  dw  background  of  sadness  against 
which  it  shines. 


Ctough  was  a  Feltow  of  Orid,  and  during  his  Oxfmd 
days  came  under  the  influence  of  Newman.  Newman 
was  by  temperament  a  far  greater  poet 
than  Clough,  and  although  he  chose  to 
express  hh  genius  in  prose  radierdian 
poetry,  yet  he  produced  one  poem  of  quite  superlative 
excellence.  The  Dream  ofGeronHus.  Praise  is  imperti- 
nent and  criticism  vain  of  such  a  poem  as  this.  Newman 
by  this  sin^e  poem  places  himself  beside  Dante,  as  dw 


CONCLUDING  8UIIVEY 


806 

5  When  w«  the 

phyri«l  terwr  of  d«th  so  described  as  he  de««h« 

"lU  this  ttiaqge  imemost  abandonment. 

(Lover of MHibf  CreatGodt  IlocAtoThw) 
This  emptying  out  of  each  constituent 
And  natural  fiwce,  by  wUch  I  can*  to  be, 
•         •         ♦         »  • 
Tis  death,_0  loving  friends,  your  pn«cn!~'tb  tel 

As  though  my  very  being  had  given  way. 
As  UMwgh  I  was  no  mne  a  subsunce  now, 

And  could  fall  back  on  nought  to  be  my  stay. 
(  Help,  lovmg  Lord  I  Thou  my  sole  Refttge.  Tbo^i 
And  turn  no  whither,  but  must  needs  deoTy  ' 

And  drop  from  out  this  universal  frame 
Into  diat  shapeless,  scopeless.  blank  abyss, 

That  utter  nothingness  of  wUch  I  cm 
Thblsit  that  has  come  to  pass  in  me ; 
O  bormr  I  Ais  it  is,  my  dearest,  this ; 

Se  pray  for  me.  oqr  fifieads,  wko  kme  not  I 

 ^  pray- 

And  so  the  moment  after  death :  — 

I  went  to  sleep;  and  now  I  am  refreshed. 
A  strange  refreshment :  for  I  fed  in  a» 

An  inexpressive  lightness,  and  a  sense 
Of  fieedom.  as  I  weie  at  length  myself. 
And  neer  had  been  before.  Howstfflkb 
I  hear  nomore  the  busy  beat  of  time, 
No^  nor  my  Untterfaf  b««h. «„^u  ^ 
Nor  does  ens  Bwnent  differ  from  the  next. 
•         •         •         •  ♦ 

TOS  soence  pours  a  solitariness 
Into     very  essence  of  my  soul ; 
And  Ae  deep  rest,  so  soothiiy  and  so  swac^ 
Hath  sometWng,  too,  of  sternness  and  of  pafai. 

So  the  poem  proceeds,  touching  evcqr  note  of  myiiiaa 


I 

'I 


896 


THE  MAKERS  OP  ENOLU^  POBTTRY 


rapture,  and  yet  ahnqn  voder  the  coatnA  of  a  powerful 
analytic  intellect— one  of  the  most  rcmarkaWe,  Mid  as  a 
religious  poem  the  greatest,  in  the  English  language. 

In  Mr.  F.  W.  H.  Myers  we  have  another  poet  of  re- 
ligion.  Mr.  Myers,  like  Mattfiew  Arnold,  is  one  of  Her 
SWUM       Majssty's  inspeccors  of  schools,  and  k 
RW.BjMyeri   jj,^  ^^^^^^  volumes  of  verse. 

One  only  of  these,  however,  is  memora- 
ble, a  poem  called      ^W.   The  poen  is  an  attempt  to 

re-express  the  spirit  of  St.  Paul,  to  re-create  out  of  the 
Episties  the  soul  of  the  great  Apostle,  with  all  its  passion  for 
CHirist  and  for  men,  its  pressure  of  thoughts  too  deep  for 
tears,  its  heroic  renunciations,  its  shame  and  slmnking, 
its  vehemence  of  purpose  and  rapture  of  spiritual  vision. 
It  maybe  at  once  granted  that  it  does  not  accomplish 
this  design  perfectly ;  perhaps  that  is  more  than  we  could 
expect  of  any  modem  artist  There  are  bbe  toudies  in 
the  poem,  ways  of  putting  things  which  we  are  quite 
sure  St.  Paul  would  never  have  used.  It  would  be  per- 
fectly natural  for  Mr.  Myers  to  write  of  himself: 

Often  tor  me  between  the  shade  and  qdendoui; 

'"eos  and  Tenedos  at  dawn  were  gray ; 
Wtiling  of  waves,  disconsolate  and  tender, 

S%lMd  on  the  shore  and  waited  for  tbe  d«j. 

But  is  it  possible  to  conceive  St.  Pfcid  as  taking  any 

interest  in  the  voice  of  the  waters  on  the  shore,  and  "  the 
purple  mystery  of  dawn  "  ?  When  St.  Paul  s  tands  upon 
the  shore  at  daybreak  it  is  amid  the  company  of  the 
elders;  and  his  whole  soul  is  too  much  with  ttfie  little 
church  at  Ephesus  and  with  the  disconsolate  group  that 
bid  him  fareweH,  knowing  that  they  will  see  his  face  no 
more,  for  fte  splendour  of  the  dawn  to  strike  a  joy  along 
his 


397 

But  if  thcM  splendid  pictures  of  Ceos  and  Tenedos  of 
pearly  dawn  and  spring  that  "poun  in  the  rain  wd 
rushes  from  the  sod."  ofAn%«nd  Orion,- 

The  night-noise  and  thuadn  of  die  lion 
SUence  and  sounds  of  the  prodigious  phun',_ 

are  essentiaUy  the  creations  of  the  Wordsworthian  age 
ttere  »  no  doubt  about  the  spiritual  truth  of  the  grfat' 

.ntlrlt^  ^hfch  it 

mtenjrets  t.e  soul  of  the  Apostle.    Is  not  m  picture  of 

St  Paii^  remembering  the  days  when  he  a  penecu- 
tor.boAlrue and  perfect?— 

Your  remembered  faces, 
D  jar  men  and  women,  whom  I  sought  and  sle 
Ah,  when  we  mingle  in  the  heavenly  places. 
Ho»  wia  I  wiiH,Sle«hB»  aM  to  you  F 


Or  Ais  picture  of  the  man  who  was  in  a  strait  betwixt 
two,beingiw«fytodep«rl^whidiwa8ftrhilter: 

Onee  for  a  night  and  day  upon  the  splndid 

Anger  and  solitude  of  seething  sea, 
Aliaoit  I  deemed  my  agony  was  ended, 

Ntefy  bdttid  Thjr  AbmBm  aatf  Tbee,  _ 

Saw  the  deep  heaving  into  ridges  nanow. 
Heard  the  blast  beOow  on  its  ocean  way. 

Fdt  the  sonl  frmf,  and  Hke.fcmhig  arrow 
Sped  M  BwM^rdDB  itoo'  aMkivdl^i, 

Ah.  but  not  yet  He  took  me  from  my  prison,— 
Left  me  a  Utde  while,  nor  left  for  loi».  — 

Bade  as  one  bwkd.  , 
Suffer  Cor  nea,  MdMhi  a  Mftba  i 


Is  it  not  likt  St.  Paul,  too,  to  pmy  that  h«  may  thf 
Wed  by  fte  meaaory  of  tiie  past? 


308  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  FOETBY 


Yes,  Thou  forgivest,  but  with  all  forgiving 
Canit  not  renew  mine  innocence  again ; 

Make  Then,  O  Christ,  a  dying  of  my  livii^, 
Purge  from  the  sin,  but  never  from  tht  pain  I 

And  finer  still,  both  in  its  intensity  of  expression  and 
iti  historic  truth,  is  this : 

Oft  when  tbe  Word  is  on  me  to  deliver. 

Opens  the  heaven,  and  the  Lord  is  tuem ; 
Desert  or  throng,  the  city  or  the  rivtr, 

lidt  ia  a  ladd  Puadise  of  air.  ~ 

Onfy  Ukt  smU  I  see  the  fdk  tlwrennder. 
Bound  who  should  conquer,  sfanret  who  dM«ld 
be  kings,  — 

Hearing  their  one  hope  with  an  empty  worJer, 
Sadly  contented  in  a  show  of  tUags ;  — 

Tbea,  with  a  rush,  the  intolerable  craving 
Shivers  throughout  me  like  a  trumpet  call,  

Oh,  to  save  these !— to  perish  in  their  saving. 
Die  for  their  life,  be  offered  for  them  all  I 

Writing  from  the  standpoint  of  absolute  religious  na- 
tion, James  Thomson,  in  his  City  of  Dreadful  Night, 
produced  oiw  of  the  most  memorable 
*^iL^r*  modem  poetry.   It  is  a  poem 

of  immitigable  bitterness,  of  profound 
thought,  of  stately  grief.   Thomson  was 
a  repidilican,  an  a&eist,  and  a  pessimist   His  message, 
such  as  it  is,  is  ccmtaiiied  in  diew  two  vetaes  tA  hk 
greatest  poem: 

I  find  no  hint  throughout  the  Universe 
Of  good  or  ill,  of  blessings  or  of  curse, 

I  find  alone  Necessity  supreme ; 
With  infinite  Mystery,  abynnal,  dark. 
UnBgfated  even  by  the  fisintest  spark 

Par  OS,  tte  fleetinr  Aadows  of  a  dicaak 


OONCLUDINO  SURVEY 


899 


O  Mien  of  ud  lives  I  they  are  w  brief: 
A  few  short  years  must  Mi^  m  aQ  icHef  • 

Cm  we  not  bear  the*  yean  of  labourii  bntth  f 
But  rf  yoa  iro«ld  not  this  poor  Ufe  fulfiU. 
Lo,  yoa  are  free  to  end  it  when  you  wiU 

Without  the  fear  of  waking  after  death  I 

ThwMon  not  always  write,  however,  as  the  laureate 
of  despair  Some  of  hi.  lighter  ve»e  has  great  charm 
and  even  humour.   Norwa.  he  ii«4)ri»leof  Jipwdatinir 

the  pieues  which  he  had  renounced:  he  aU^^^ 

ater  them  with  wistful  sadness.    Thus  no  one  h!«  sSo^ 

•  truer  appreoatioa  of  William  Blake,  and  his  short  poem 
on  fiiake  is  a  gem.  *^ 

He  came  to  the  desert  of  Loaden  tama. 

Gray  miles  loi^ ; 
He  wandered  up  and  he  WMidacd  dowa. 

Sia^  a  quiet  r 


Hi  came  to  the  desert  of  Londoa  town, 

Mirk  miles  broad ; 
He  wandered  up  and  he  wandend  down 

Ever  alone  with  God. 

There  were  thousands  and  thousands  of 
In  thii  desert  of  brick  and  stone, 

Bot  some  were  deaf  and  some  wm  M«H. 
And  he  was  there  alone. 


At  length  the  good  hour  caae;  he  died 

As  he  bad  Bred,  alone: 
He  wu  not  missed  from  the  desert  wide— 
Peibaps  he  was  found  at  the  Throne, 
^for  Thomson  no  return  to  faith  was  possible,  and 
h.s  despair  «  «  sincere  a.  It  «  tngic  Hrpow;rof 
"nagmahon  .s  intense  and  unflagging.   Two  of  hferiwrtw 
poems.  /«  tAe  Room  and  Insomnia,  are  almost  terrifying 
fn  their  gloomy  power.    His  own  life  was  made  much 


400  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


more  unhappy  than  it  might  have  been  by  his  intemper- 
ate habits.  These  indirectly  caused  his  death.  He  died 
in  University  College  Hospital  on  June  3,  1882.  Upon 
his  funeral-card  was  printed  a  verse  of  hit  most  despair- 
ing poetry,  which,  in  a  sense,  summarized  his  vabMppy 
life: 

Weary  of  erring  in  this  desert  life. 
Weary  of  hoping  hopes  forever  vain. 

Weary  of  struggling  in  all-sterile  strife. 
Weary  of  thought  which  maketh  nothing  pbia, 

I  ckwe  my  eyes,  and  cafan  my  panting  bttadi. 

And  pnqr  to  thee,  O  ever-quiet  Death ! 
To  come  and  soothe  away  my  bitter  pain. 

There  remains  for  consideration  the  work  of  a  group 
of  American  poets  who  have  added  much  both  to  the 

cricaa  Pocti.  l««stre  of  the  poetry  of  the 

last  century.  The  earliest  of  these  is 
W.  C.  Bryant,  whose  work,  now  almost  forgotten,  once 
exercised  a  powerful  charm  over  the  minds  of  his  con- 
temporaries. Bryant  had  little  original  gift,  but  he  ex- 
cels in  a  certain  stately  gravity  which 


HM  WTl       lends  to  worn  and  trite  themes  an  air  of 
dignified  grace.    His  verse  always  has  a 
certain  lai^  simplidty,  which  soothes  and  uptifts  the 
mind;  but  he  does  not  arrest  the  thought,  and  he  has 
little  power  to  kindle  the  imagination  or  the  emotions. 

Totally  different  is  Edgar  Allen  Foe,  whose  contribu- 
tions to  prcmt  literature  are  considered  in  the  third  volume 
of  this  series.   Poe  possessed  in  the  high- 
Bttf  *■•«  ft*        degree  the  <^ift  of  charm.    He  is  es- 


sentially morbiJ  m  thought  a;:  J  artificial 
in  meAod ;  he  is  oftm  a  mere  trickier  in  his  excessive 
hat  he  mverftekss  possesses  a  gift  <^  mdody 


CDKCSiUDING  SURVEY  401 


quite  unrivalled  by  any  other  poet  of  his  nation.  It  is  of 
litde  consequence  that  his  musical  cadences  are  them- 
selves a  piece  of  superb  trickery :  the  fact  remains  that 
they  haunt  the  memory,  they  have  a  magical  sweetness, 
Aey  exercise  a  wizard's  spell  on  the  imagination.  His 
poem  on  The  Raven  is  known  wherever  English  litera- 
ture is  known.  It  is  the  most  sincere  of  all  his  poems; 
and,  in  spite  of  its  obvious  artificiality  in  form,  is  still 
a  memorable  expression  of  stately  grief  and  incurable 
regret  As  a  lord  of  melody  he  is  Swinburne's  pre- 
cursor, and  remains  his  master.  His  greatest  excellencies 
are  often  found  in  his  lesser  poems,— as  for  instance  in 
Annaiel  Lee,  and  tiie  exquisite  lyric  commencing. 


In  the  fairest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted : 


his  greatest  vices  in  a  poem  like  The  Bells,  which  is  « 

piece  of  unmixed  lyric  artifice.  With  the  temperament 
of  the  poseur  and  the  tricks  of  the  juggler ;  with  no  par- 
ticular truth  to  express  or  conviction  to  convey ;  Poe  is 
nevertheless  so  supreme  an  artist  that  his  poetry  moves 
us  as  only  genuine  poetry  can,  and  it  survives  in  spite  of 
^ects  more  notorious  than  can  be  enumerated  in  the 
w:  tings  of  any  other  poet  of  established  eminence. 

ongfeUow  is  the  most  popular  poet  of  modem  times, 
JUt  he  is  very  far  from  being  a  great  poet.  Much  of  his 
liewT  Wad  wMtk  derivative,  drawn  from  well- 

^jJ^jJUJ^    known  sources ;  only  in  his  Evangeline 
Mf-MI.  Hiawatha  is  he  a  distinctively 

American  poet.  He  excels  in  simple 
pathos,  in  a  faculty  of  quaint  conceit  and  graceful  fancy, 
ai^  in  the  interpretation  <rf  tiie  domestic  affections. 


409  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENOUSH  FOEIEY 


Lines  like  tlie  followiiqr  win  thdr  way  to  tiie  heart  by 
tliefar  veiy  sin^dty  and  unafiected  tendcrnew : 

O  Httle  feet,  that  such  long  years 

Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears. 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load* 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn, 
Where  toil  shall  end  and  rest  begin. 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road. 

Poems  such  as  Excelsior  and  The  Psalm  of  Life,  in 
spite  of  triteness  in  theme,  have  nevertheless  earned  their 
right  to  be  numbered  among  the  secular  hymns  of 
humanity.  Occasionally  Longfellow  gives  signs  of  a 
laiger  power  of  vision  and  interpretation.  This  is  found 
chiefly  in  his  ballads,  such  as  Cannilhan  and  The  Phantom 
Skip.  But  the  real  deficiency  of  Longfellow  is  always 
ai^nrent ;  he  bdcs  distinction,  and  his  mind  though 
highly  cultivated,  is  iwverdidess  oommoiqilace 
quality. 

Whitticr,  whose  poems  have  also  shared  a  wide  popu- 
hrity,  ranla  much  lower  tiian  Longfidlow.   He  is  a 
hymnist  rather  than  a  poet,  and  his  best 
"'"wwtHer'**'    Productions  are  hymnal  in  form.  His 
IM7-IMZ.  sifts  are  moral  passion,  nobly  dis- 

pla)red  in  all  his  poems  written  againrt 
slavery,  and  spiritual  fervour  which  is  never  lacking  in  his 
religious  and  devotional  poetry.  He  soothes,  pleases 
and  instructs ;  but  he  seldom  opens  new  gates  of  vision  to 
the  mind,  and  there  is  little  that  is  distinctive  in  his  style 
and  method.  It  is  perhaps  a  suflRcient  tribute  to  his  gift 
that  he  has  written  some  of  the  best  hymns  of  his  genera- 
tion, which  often  contain  lines  that  are  really  exquisite  in 
tiious^t  and  expresrioo. 


CONCLUDING  SURVJSV 


408 

iMMRuMU  unmelodic  in  his  vcreification  He 

Uweu        's  rather  an  acoompUshed  man  of  letten 
lUMlH.       who  has  Written  excellent^  tl^ 

a  humourist,  hoCL  ^H"  As 

and  his  A>Aw^^"r^  K 
Whitman  is  a  potential  nth^-  a— 

Among  L  i 

oi  recent  years  is  Sidney  Lmmh-       _  Po« 
oiancy  A^anier,  the  most  wonderful  in 


404  THE  MAKERS  OF  ENOU8H  POETRY 


native  power,  Emily  Dickenson.  Lanier  has  something 
of  Ftoe's  gift  of  mdody,  twt  unlike  Poe,  be  is  always  sia- 
ceie.  He  is  at  his  best  in  his  shorter  poems;  in  his 
longer  poems  his  craftsmanship  is  often  in  excess  of  his 
material.  Emily  Dickensm,  on  tiie  other  hand,  in  spite 
ol  an  almost  total  igiwranoe  of  craftsmanship,  Splays  a 
range  of  imaginative  power,  with  an  occasional  intensity 
of  vision  and  felicity  of  phrase,  altogether  unique  in 
modem  poetry,  and  entirely  wonderful  when  we  remem- 
ber the  limitations  of  her  mind  and  life.  She  ranks  with 
William  Blake  in  the  essential  spirituality  of  her  gift  and 
the  method  of  its  expression. 

Among  living  poets  of  America  and  England  tiic.'e  are 
many  memorable  names,  such  as  Rudyard  Kipling, 
William  Watson,  John  Davidson,  and  Whitcomb  Riley. 
The  first  and  last  of  these  are  the  most  original,  each 
being  an  interpreter,  the  one  of  the  strenuous  life  of  com- 
mon men,  and  the  other  of  all  that  is  most  characteristic 
in  the  rural  life  of  America.  In  the  work  of  William 
Watson  and  John  Davidson,  tiie  tradition  x>f  the  great 
poetry  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  still  maintained; 
neverdieless  it  is  clear  that  the  great  minstrelsy  of 
modet  .1  poetry  closed  with  Tennyson.  Tbe  sun  which 
sank  on  the  Glk  of  October,  1892,  took  with  it  not  a  life 
only,  but  an  era.  The  new  age  has  yet  to  produce  its 
new  poets.  That  it  will  do  so,  we  cannot  doubt.  Of 
that  lai^  gift  of  song  whidi  filled  the  nineteendi  centuiy 
we  may  say  as  Ferdimmd  in  7%e  Tempest  si^ : 

This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waten. 
Allaying  both  my  fury  and  their  passion 
With  its  sweet  air ;  thence  have  I  followed  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather ; — but  'tis  gone. 

Let  us  also  hopefully  complete  the  speech  of  Ferdinand, 

No,  it  begins  again. 

4 


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